


[Unfinished] The Road Less Traveled: Outtakes, Alternate POVs, Notes, etc.

by kisahawklin



Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [36]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate POV, Deleted Scenes, M/M, Multi, Outtakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: What it says on the tin.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/56814
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. SAM POV on the skinwalker impersonating Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This story is so fucking huge that there's no way it could be contained in a single story with a clear throughline. Here's some stuff around the edges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin. This is basically to explain a little bit of what's going on with Sam (lots more in upcoming outtakes).

~~~

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam asks, ripping the door of the Impala open in disgust. "The place shut down almost an hour ago!" A sweet smell wafts out of the car, but not one he recognizes, definitely not pie.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean says, not sounding sorry at all. "I got caught up talking to a sweet little piece at the local crystals and chakras store."

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course Dean got caught up talking to a girl. He's such an ass sometimes. "Didn't get dinner yet either," he sneers, and then horror strikes. "Or are we cooking at the motel?" Dad's idea of home cooked dinner involves can openers and only occasionally a heating element.

"Nah, we can stop on the way," Dean says, pulling out into traffic, slowly, like a normal driver. His hand is resting at the bottom of the steering wheel, practically in his lap. Something's wrong. He stares at Dean, trying to figure out if anything else is different. He reaches out with that _other_ thing, the thing that connects him to Dean all the time, and it bounces off. 

He does one last check, a demand, something he's only done a couple of times before. _Dean!_ He keeps driving, exactly the speed limit, and not gunning the Impala's engine at all. 

Sam swallows. The thing in the car with him definitely isn't Dean. 

The only advantage Sam's got going for him right now is that it doesn't know that he knows. He needs to get it in a room where it's outnumbered, and that means Dad. "Better not," Sam says, holding up the sheaf of papers he's got. "Dad needs to see this."

The thing does Dean's "yeah, whatever" face and it's so creepy that Sam has to force himself not to stare. He holds it together, just barely, and turns to look out the window, pretending to be lost in thought while he watches the scenery go by, leisurely, like Dean's never driven in his entire life.

It takes them straight to the motel, though, so either it beat the information out of Dean (and Sam would be willing to bet that is actually physically impossible) or it has some kind of mental link to him, which hopefully means Dean's alive somewhere.

~~~

Sam lets Dean go in first, waits to see if Dad notices. Dad gives Dean one up and down look and turns to Sam. "What've you got?"

Sam shouldn't be disappointed, but he is; he was hoping that Dad would figure it out too, that it isn't just because he's some kind of freak who has a fixation on his older brother. "It's a shapeshifter," Sam says bluntly, setting down the papers next to Dad's duffel on the kitchen table. He can see the silver knife and debates what to do. He's pretty accurate, but that thing is wearing Dean's face, so he can't be sure it won't compromise his aim, and they can't let it out of their sight or they'll never be able to find it again.

"You're sure?" 

"Pretty sure," Sam says. "Every ten to fifteen years, there's a miracle story, someone surviving against-the-odds cancer or waking up from a coma or something. And, when the newest miracle story happens, the last one just... falls off the map. No death certificates, but no more tax documents, either. Houses up for sale, that kind of thing. And they thought one of them had been kidnapped. There was a manhunt for weeks, but no dice."

"So this thing is actually harmless," not-Dean says, and Sam can't help the shiver that goes down his spine. "It's only turning into people who would've died anyway."

Dad bristles and turns around to look at the thing. Sam grabs the knife while Dad's body is blocking him from its view and shifts away from Dad, closer to the door. 

"What did you do with my son?" Dad asks, and the relief that goes through Sam is secondary only to the innate fear that always goes along with the sound of his dad's menacing voice. He might feel sympathy for the thing if it wasn't wearing his brother's face.

"What? Dad, I'm right here!" 

It does give a good Dean impression - if it weren't for the empty nothingness that's reverberating where his usual comforting Dean-space is, Sam would have his doubts.

"Sam?" Dad asks, not even turning to look at him. 

"It's not him, sir. I knew as soon as I got in the car."

"Then I'll ask you again," Dad says, reaching into his duffel and pulling out a shotgun. "Where is my son?"

It tries to run - and damn it is _fast_ , but Sam's ready for it and when it tries to knock him out of the way, he easily slides the knife into what would be Dean's liver, but who knows if it hit anything vital on this thing. He's not even sure a silver knife will do anything, he's just guessing because if silver is a weakness, it's usually a weakness in any form.

"You'll never find your brother without me," it pants, clutching Sam's arms as it slides down to the floor.

~~~

It's laughing at them. It had tried reasoning with them first but that never works on Dad. It might have worked on Sam, if only the thing hadn't been wearing Dean's face.

"Tell me where he is," Dad says, the silver knife a hair's breadth above its skin.

"You think I'm an idiot?" it yells, spittle going everywhere, making Dad back off and wipe his face. "Dean is the only bargaining chip I've got. And being in his head tells me the second you know where he is, I'm dead."

Sam glares at it. It's right, but there's no way they're going to bargain with it.

"I know a few other things rattling around in here," it says, and Sam doesn't move, doesn't even breathe. "Isn't that right, _Sammy_?"

Sam's not usually around for the interrogation part – neither is Dean, really, Dad usually does this sort of thing on his own. _Protecting us_ , Sam thinks, and that is so messed up he wants to scream. He knows he needs to let Dad do his thing, but he wants to put a fist in that monster's face so bad he can taste it.

The monster looks at Dad, sizing him up. "I could tell you all the secrets your sons are keeping from you."

Thankfully, Dad just shrugs. "Everyone needs a few secrets." 

Sam knows that's the truth, Dad is mostly fine with them as long as they have each other, and Dean has always had his back. But Dad doesn't know about the guys, and that is one thing Sam never ever wants Dad to know about – because he's pretty sure he won't be as blind about it as Dean is, that he'll see the type of guy Sam likes and know exactly why. 

"So Dean helping Sam go to college next year, that's okay with you?"

Sam freezes. Dad turns to him, slowly. "You recruited your brother to help you do something I expressly forbid?"

"No, I never," Sam says, taking a step back under his dad's glare. He'd been planning on doing it all himself, he was never planning to involve Dean –

"Oh, no," the monster says, grinning with teeth that are bloody from Dad's fists. "That was all Dean's idea. He thinks Sam will leave you behind for good unless he does something." It turns his gaze on Sam. "And he's right, isn't he?"

Sam swallows, looking back and forth from the monster to dad. "Dad, it's just trying to distract you–"

"Answer his question, Sam."

Sam can feel his pulse tick up. This is a familiar fight, one he's happy to go back and forth with Dad about when Dean isn't missing or hurt or god forbid, _dead_. "Dad, it doesn't matter – we need to find Dean."

"Answer."

The monster is grinning at him with Dean's face, a scary, malevolent smile that makes his guts twist. "I don't know. I was hoping it wouldn't come to that." He looks up at Dad, stubbornness asserting itself again. If there is one thing Sam isn't going to back down on, it's this. Dean must have figured that out and Sam's pretty thrilled about that, though he wishes Dean would've said something before. 

Sam's expecting the real fighting to start, trying to think of ways to train Dad's attention back on the monster, when the stupid thing does it itself. It can't have all of Dean's memories, or it would've known to just shut up and let the two of them play out their typical fight, wait for Sam to walk out the door so it has better odds.

"Oh, that's not the only thing Dean knows," it says, grinning creepily and _fuck _, Sam thinks, _we're just going to let it all hang out here, Dad's going to kill me with his own two hands when he finds out I'm a freak that has some kind of weird psychic link to his brother whom, incidentally, I want to fuck._ __

__"Dad," Sam tries preemptively, but the shapeshifter is already talking and it's Sam who has to take a step back, because, _what_?_ _

__"I said," it says, big, fat, triumphant grin on its face, "that I know what you're keeping in that lockup in Duluth."_ _

__And then Sam sees something that will haunt his nightmares forever. The look of rage and sorrow on Dad's face is remarkable mostly for the way that it is so at odds with everything else about him, calm, measured, cool. He takes the knife and guts the monster in smooth, clean strokes, its intestines falling over its lap and dangling down to the floor, the look of utter surprise on its face just as disturbing as the awful smirk that was there a minute ago._ _

__"Dad!" Sam yells, because, oh _shit_ , there's a secret that means more to Dad than _Dean's life_ and Sam is going to throw up right now. "He was the only one who knew where Dean was! How the hell are we supposed to find him now?"_ _

__Dad turns slowly, looking Sam up and down. Sam can almost see the moment where he checks back in, when the understanding of where he is and what he's done is clear. "Well," he says, "I guess we'll see just how smart you are, Sammy. Consider this your Winchester college entrance exam."__

__~~~_ _

__They do the grunt work, stuff Sam doesn't do much, and on the very rare occasions he has, it's been with Dean. He's not sure if it's because Dean's life is on the line or if it's just the way Dad is, but he's brutally efficient and doesn't spend time looking at anything too closely. Sam has to hold him back to look through the papers on Garrett Winters' desk. "Well, we know why it dumped Garrett," Sam says. "He ran up every credit card he had and got a second mortgage on the house."_   
_

__"It'd spend years paying off debt and building a credit history," Dad says, and Sam nods._ _

__"But there was no miracle recovery after Garrett." Sam scans the apartment looking for some clue, any clue, but he just knows it's not going to be here. None of the people it shifted into ever had any connection to the person before. "I don't know how we're supposed to know whose life it jumped into next."_ _

__"Well, figure it out," Dad snaps, storming out of the place._ _

__Sam stays, takes advantage of the quiet and the distance from Dad to think it through. The shifter had chosen people who were dead or dying and taken over their lives. Always local; he didn't seem to have any connections to people, but he obviously had a connection to this place._ _

__So why Dean?_ _

__Sam races out to the truck, talking before he even gets there. "It knew we were hunters," Sam says. "It picked Dean because it wanted to… I don't know. Get rid of us, maybe, or save itself."_ _

__"Okay," Dad says, like he doesn't understand how important this is._ _

__"Don't you get it? It was someone he came in contact with _today_. Where did you go today? Where did Dean go?"_ _

__Dad shrugs. "We nosed around. Hit the local hotspots, talked to people who knew Garrett."_ _

__"Together?" Sam presses. Dean was still Dean when he'd dropped Sam off at the library that morning; the switch had happened sometime during the next eight hours._ _

__"Mostly," Dad says. "The only time he was off by himself was when he left to pick you up."_ _

__"And you didn't see anyone following you during the day?"_ _

__Dad shakes his head._ _

__"How was he driving when he left to pick me up?" Sam asks. "Peeled out of the parking lot?"_ _

__"Of course," Dad says. Sam nods. That limits it to the hour or so before Sam got in the Impala with the thing._ _

__A sudden flash of memory comes to him, the elderly gentleman helping him with the microfiche, asking all kinds of questions about why Sam was in town, why he was looking up old newspapers, all while being extremely helpful._ _

__And the lady who had come over to him when he'd lost track of time – telling him she thought Ernest had cleared him out half an hour ago, that the library was closed and he needed to leave._ _

__"I know who it is," Sam says grimly. "Take me to the library."__

__~~~_ _

__  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the fic! [Chapter 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253129/chapters/71835375).


	2. Sam gets cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptfic that outlines basically what happened to Sam at the moment it happened.

~~~

Sam went through bunches of hobbies when he was little, trying them all on when the inspiration struck, but he never really kept up with them. Stamp-collecting got rejected almost as fast as it started - they only got mail at their P.O. boxes, and they only got to them once a month or so, depending on what cases Dad had going, so the one glorious day where Sam peeled off the stamps from the random mail was forgotten within the week. He'd found new coloring books with geometric designs and Dean had stolen a set of colored pencils and a little sharpener so Sam could fastidiously stay within the lines.

Coins lasted a little longer. He'd go through dad's change every time he emptied his pockets on the table, looking for Canadian pennies and buffalo nickels. He had a cigar box full of coins that weren't worth more than they claimed to be, but there were a few interesting things in there. He had an Eisenhower dollar coin as well as a couple Susan B. Anthonys and four Kennedy half-dollars. He kept them secret; he knew Dean would try to spend them on stupid things like the arcade or ice cream if he knew Sam had almost $10 in his collection. 

Dad often came home after Sam was in bed, so he always woke up early to go through the change he left on the table before Dean got up. There wasn't anything on the table this morning. He looked over to dad's bed and saw his jeans and flannel on the floor - he must've been exhausted to not do his nightly ritual. Sam crept over and checked on dad as best he could. Dad was buried under the covers and only his face was showing, so Sam couldn't tell if there were cuts or bruises. Dad's breathing was steady and he hadn't been moaning in pain (that always woke Dean up), so Sam figured he was probably fine, just tired.

He sat down on the floor and pulled his dad's jeans into his lap, dipping his hand into the pocket to pull out a handful of coins. He got a bit of a shock when his fingers brushed the cool metal, but he ignored it, scooping up all the coins and pulling them out in his clenched fist.

There were six pennies, none interesting, one dime, two quarters (one from 1963, which was the oldest Sam'd seen yet) and one odd-looking silver coin. He turned it over and over, looking at the odd markings on it. He wasn't sure if the symbols were a language or not - they didn't look like any symbols he'd seen before, that was sure. 

Sam rubbed his thumb over the coin and a weird sensation jumped in his belly. He'd never felt anything like that before - it was both pleasant and uncomfortable, and he rubbed his thumb over it again, the same feeling jolting him.

Dad stirred, and Sam knew he was going to wake Dean up any second, so he put the change back in Dad's pocket, except the 1963 quarter and the silver coin. He hurried to put them into his coin box and crawl back in bed before Dean woke up and wondered where he'd gotten off to.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep going to the next one - John POV on what exactly happened here (it took a LOT of figuring out as to why someone would curse a kid with this kind of spell)


	3. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue to this whole thing. This wasn't SUPPOSED to be a massive fic. It was supposed to be long, maybe, but not like THIS. If I could finish it, we're probably talking about 300k worth of fic, and that's just... wow. But anyway, this came about because when it got down to it, I was like... WHO THE FUCK CURSED A KID WITH THAT KIND OF SPELL? And.... here you have it. :|

April can't stand it.

Day after day, he comes into the shop, spending time with all the old crones in their smelly, creepy back rooms. He's so different from anyone she has ever met in this little hick town, it's all she can do not to drool on the counter when he comes in.

 _John Winchester._ Just thinking his name makes her want to sigh like some heroine in a bad romance novel. She's never seen a man like him, except in the movies. 

He's nice enough. Says hi, smiles at her. Manages small talk when he buys some of the weird herbs and crystals she's fairly certain are complete garbage. She gives him suggestions on places to eat, to drink, to hook up. She hangs out at those places after work, hoping she'll see him, but he never shows. 

It's not until she sees something in one of the back rooms that she realizes maybe the crystals and herbs aren't _total_ bullshit after all. She's heard a lot of crap working the counter, but people are so suggestible. Curses and love spells and ridiculous shit like that? She was pretty sure that was all in everyone's mind. But this is different. This is the oldest woman – Agatha – sitting in a rocking chair, grinning with her mouth missing half its teeth, and John Winchester is in front of her, hovering in midair, his head thrown back in what looks like ecstasy. She doesn't know what the hell the magic is supposed to be doing, but she's pretty sure levitation isn't something that happens in the real world.

Once she sees that, she starts to pay closer attention. The books in the back are different than the books in the front. Older. Handwritten, sometimes. The books in the front are published by regular publishing houses, and she has to put in an order for a dozen or so every few weeks. No, the books in the back feel different – and the stuff in the back of the shop is different, too. There's jars and jars of things in the back pantry that she never looked at closely because she assumed it was the old ladies' home cooking – her mom used to make jam and pickles and stuff. It was all in those mason jars, and it seemed to ebb and flow the way she remembers her mom's root cellar doing with the seasons.

She looks closer, though, and what she thought was beets is too red, and when she rolls the jar a little to check the consistency, too thick. She's pretty sure it's blood. She's pretty sure she's seen John Winchester leave with bags of stuff from the back rooms. Sometimes he stops up front to buy other things, but sometimes not.

The crones refuse to teach her. She was hired, she's pretty sure, for her healthy skepticism and sarcastic nature. When she says she's changed her mind and wants to learn magic, all three of them turn in unison and look her up and down, slowly, creepily.

"No," they say, and turn around to retreat to their individual rooms. Workshops, she knows now. Workshops full of old things, powerful things, not the bright and shiny unsharpened athames and cute little cast iron cauldrons. No, the stuff they have in the back rooms has real power in it, blood, sweat, tears, and who knows what else ground into the materials. 

Well, it doesn't matter. April's always been a go-getter. She'll teach herself if she has to. She opens the shop in the morning – the crones don't come down from the rooms upstairs until noon at the earliest. She doesn't know how late they stay up, but she decides to come in early the next day, a ready excuse about a full-store inventory should anyone question.

The earliest she dares is five o'clock. She has a feeling that going to bed at four is not out of the realm of possibility for the witches. She swears their tools still feel warm when she runs her hands over them.

The books come first. There are books in languages she can't understand, so those are for later, she thinks, but she's looking to put together a little something to snare her one John Winchester, and she doesn't have time to waste. He's been coming in for almost two weeks but he's a drifter – every day he's here is one step closer to him being gone, and she intends to go with him, finally get out of this podunk redneck town and her ugly boring life. 

She knows enough to know that she doesn't want one of the run of the mill love spells. Those girls always come back miserable, or worse. Love takes time – she knows this. Sex, though – sex is like a gateway drug, and if she does it right, she can build in the time to make him fall in love with her. It shouldn't take too long, if she's smart about it. 

One of Mildred's books is on language, the effect different languages have on spells. The recommended language for love spells is Sanskrit, which sucks because she has no idea about Sanskrit, and even if she uses a translator (and where the hell would she find one of those?) she wouldn't be able to read it. 

She decides on the most romantic language she can sort-of read and goes with French. It'll be much easier to get a translation into French, anyway. She knows instinctively that she has to write the spell herself; it won't work properly if she uses something someone else has written, with a different intention – a different focus. She keeps John Winchester in the back of her mind even now, even as she looks up ingredients for lust and fidelity and hope. 

There is a coin in the register that has been there since she started working here. It's gold, foreign, and probably ancient. She's always thought it had some kind of spell on it, so she keeps it out of her way, in the last little change bucket by itself, not touching any of the money she has to touch. It won't work for her spell, but it gives her a great idea about how to get John in on the spell without coercing him or drugging him or something else that would start their relationship off on the wrong foot.

Her mom used to travel a lot. April remembers those days from when she was very small like a dream, airplanes and hotel rooms and the box of coins Mom always kept from the different countries she's been to. She had a few commemorative things, too – a few copies of rare coins. As April digs through the collection her mom left her, she finds a copy of an old one rupee coin – no English on it at all, only markings that look like they might be Sanskrit. Not the same as a Sanskrit spell, but certainly can't hurt.

She uses it as a focus, holding it constantly, always thinking about John Winchester. _Winchester._ What a great last name. She's going to be a Winchester. It makes her grin. She can't help it, smiling like an idiot all the time. The crones start to stare at her – especially Margaret, who isn't as old as the other two and sometimes even treats April like a human being instead of a sea slug. She doesn't care. Once the spell is cast, she's out of here, and she's not looking back.

When she finally gets the spell on paper and hires a college student to translate it into French, she has to practice for hours to with the tape the girl makes to come even close to pronouncing it correctly. 

The next day she plucks up the courage to talk to John. She has to know how long she has before he skips town. Him and that beautiful black car of his, as long and lean and cool as John himself. 

"Howdy, stranger."

That earns her a lopsided smile. "Margaret in the back?" he asks.

"I think she's upstairs," April says, knowing it's a lie, and that she might come out any minute and snatch John away from her.

"Will you go get her, please?" John asks. 

He seems irritated, this can't be good. "Sure, but what's your rush? After all this time, you're in a hurry?"

"Sorry," John says, turning a charming smile on her. April's breath catches in her throat. "It's just that I'm wrapping up my business here and I need something she promised me."

"Oh," April says, her mind racing. "So you're leaving soon?"

"Tomorrow, if everything goes well," John says.

"I see," April says, the words of the spell tripping over themselves in her brain. "Do you need to stock up on anything while you're here?" She turns the coin over and over in her hand, the French words colliding into each other while she tries to remember things he's bought in the past. "We have that frankincense bark you liked, and we just got in a bunch of small moonstones – you know, the little ones you were using?" 

That catches his attention. "How many?" he asks, and she tries to keep her hands from shaking as she opens the cabinet to the crystals and gemstones. 

"Here's a good fifty or so," she says, pulling out the seashell the stone chips are resting in. "I can check in the back – I think we got a big bag, maybe a couple hundred."

"You do that," he says, giving her a grim smile. "And I'll take whatever you've got. And get Margaret while you're back there, please."

"Of course," she says, smiling and running through the sparkly purple curtains to the back area. All three of the crones are in their rooms, so she's going to have to make do with what she can find in the stores. It's all basic herbs, cumin, caraway, anise seed, saffron. The last ingredient is something of hers; she was going to use menstrual blood, but it's too late for that now. She runs to the kitchenette and finds the sharpest knife in the drawer, slicing it across the meat of her thumb. 

She mixes the herbs in with her blood, still going over the French in her mind. Her time is up, though, because she can hear Margaret and John talking in the front room. _Damn it!_

She calms her mind, turning the coin in her hand three times, thinking _Winchester, Winchester, Winchester_. She dips her fingers into the bloody herbs and rubs the mixture into the coin, whispering the French under her breath, seven times, then three more _Winchesters_. 

When she's done, she wipes the coin clean on her jeans and palms it, grabbing the bag of moonstone chips and running back out to the store. "There you are," she says, but Margaret must see something, because she narrows her eyes suspiciously at April. 

"I was in my workshop, which you well knew."

"Oh, uh, well, I must have misheard you," April says, willing Margaret just to shut up for a minute so she can sell John his moonstones and give him his charmed change. "So, I figure we can give him the bulk discount, right?" 

John gives Margaret a warm smile that turns April's stomach. He flirts with everyone, she knows, or – well, everyone but _her_ apparently, though that should change any minute here. 

Margaret rolls her eyes but smiles back coyly and says, "Why not. John's a good customer."

"Great," April says. "Then that's $26.33 for the moonstones – there's around three hundred in the bag."

John takes his wallet out and hands her two twenties, and she can feel her heart thumping so loud it's going to beat out of her chest in a minute. She wonders if the witch can hear it, too. "Okay, your change is, fourteen dollars and sixty-seven cents," she says, setting the coins on top of the dollar bills. 

She doesn't breathe, waiting for him to pick up the coins, but he just tips them directly from the pile of dollar bills into his pocket. Unbelievable! 

Now she's going to have to follow him, make sure she's near him, close enough that when he goes looking for some company after the spell starts to work its magic, she's waiting and available. 

"All right," John says, "Now on to what I really came here for. I think you know what it is." He gives Margaret another charming smile and if he does it one more time, April is going to rip Margaret's face right off. 

They walk into the back room and April can't think of any reason to follow, so she decides to make sure they don't care if she clocks out early. She goes to Agatha, because she cares the least, and can only hear her half the time. She tries to hear what Margaret is talking to John about, but it's all just low murmurs and concerned voices. 

She doesn't even bother to switch out the cash drawers, just signs Lisa in and grabs her coat and purse, rushing to her car so she can follow John wherever he ends up.

She feels almost like a spy, following him without being obvious about it. It's easy with his car – it stands out in a crowd – and she knows the way out of town as well as anyone. He drives for nearly an hour, and that's tougher – she can't just follow him as he turns left and right, and eventually she loses him in the back roads outside the [place]. She doesn't know what to do; wait until he comes back to the highway to head back to town? He was planning on leaving; what if he takes off the other direction after whatever he's doing and she never sees him again? 

She drives back out to the highway, parking at the mom and pop gas station right next to the place he turned off, and waits. She has no idea how long this will take; she has no idea what he's even _doing_. It's the first time she's thought about that part of it; what if he's a serial killer and he's going to torture his most recent victim? She can't really picture it, but he does hang around a bunch of creepy witches and buy a bunch of weird woo woo stuff. You don't need that stuff to torture people, though, and she can't imagine what kind of "special" thing he might need to do that.

She gets her mind off that track and instead pictures what it's going to feel like when he finally falls under her spell and takes her back to his place. He's a drifter, so it's got to be a hotel or something, which is great, because April still lives at home and there's no way her mom would let someone like John in the door. 

He'd open the door for her, let her go in first, maybe crowd in close behind her, breathe on her neck. She's getting wet just thinking about it. She shifts, annoyed that she's just sitting here, out in the open, waiting for John to drive back into her life with that classic car of his. 

After an hour, she gets antsy. After three hours, she gets sleepy. She gives up when she can't keep her eyes open and rests her head against the window to nap. When she wakes up, it's dark and she's kicking herself, because what if she missed him? What if he drove by while she was asleep, and has already gone to some bar to get some company?

A familiar roaring sound interrupts her thoughts, and she strains her eyes to see a car as black as night in the darkness. The sound gets louder and she turns on her lights and pulls onto the highway. She knows he's going to town; she can drive slow and he'll pass her, so she won't look suspicious following him. 

Everything goes exactly to plan, and when she follows him back to the Red Bird Motel, she can't say she's thrilled with his accommodations, but it's still better than her place. She waits; it shouldn't be long now. He'll have to take the change out of his pockets and when he touches the coin, he'll be looking for someone to share his bed. She intends to be the very first possible person he can see.

A few minutes go by, then a few more, and then the lights go off in the room. She can't _believe_ it! Did he go to bed fully clothed? Did he not bother to take the stuff out of his pockets? 

She waits another hour, just in case the curse is slower-acting than she expects, but nothing happens. No lights turning on, no suddenly horny John, nothing. She goes home, setting her alarm for the crack of dawn so she doesn't miss him if he goes out for breakfast. She just bets he's the kind of guy that picks up waitresses.

~~~

She sleeps through her alarm. When she finally wakes up, the gorgeous black car is gone from the parking lot and a feeling of dread descends. What if she missed him? What if he found someone else and went home with them?

She forces herself not to panic. She looks at her watch. Eleven thirty. Still relatively early, at least from her experience with John. She decides to try the diners. Maybe he's just out getting breakfast.

No luck. She drives around town for a couple of hours, checking the parking lots of all the restaurants and bars with no luck. He can't have left town! She goes back to his hotel and tries to think up a subtle way to ask if he's still registered there. She can't think of anything, so she just waits. 

The disappointment is enough to choke her. He was her ticket out of here! He was everything she ever wanted, including an escape from this shitty little backwoods town. She lets herself cry in the parking lot for a little while. Her life is over. She's never going to leave this place and she'll forever be stuck here working for those three weird witches and turn into some hag herself.

She finally gives up, driving herself to the little crystal shop for her three o'clock shift.

~~~

John comes thundering back into her life a couple of hours later, and she's thrilled for just a split-second – until she realizes he is pissed off, and carrying a gun.

"Margaret!" he yells, and April gasps. He points the gun at her and she raises her shaking hands.

"No funny business," he says, like April might try something while there's a gun being waved in her face. She nods dumbly and keeps her hands up.

"Margaret!" he yells again.

"She has a customer," April whispers, not wanting to catch John's eyes but unable to look away from him. 

"Then get rid of him and bring her out here," John says. April swallows and nods. 

She hadn't thought of slipping out the back, but apparently John gives her more credit, because he follows her to the back, and when April knocks and pulls back the curtain to Margaret's room, he shoves in front of her.

"Get lost," he says to the woman who looks like she's about to faint. She grabs her purse and bolts from the room. 

"John," Margaret says, much too calm for this situation. "What can I help you with?"

"What did you do to my son?" John asks, and April goes cold. John has a son? How had she never seen the kid in all the time she's known him?

"I assure you, I've done nothing to your son. What's wrong with him?"

It doesn't seem possible, but John gets even angrier. "You think I don't know spellwork when I see it? He's pale and sweating, his eyes are glassy. He's got the aura."

That seems to shock Margaret. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," John answers.

"I'll need to see him," Margaret says, bustling out of the room past John and April, grabbing her shawl. "I won't know how to dispel it until I can figure out what it is."

April watches them, wondering if it is possible that his son picked up her coin on accident. No. It's not possible.

"What are you mumbling about?" Margaret asks, and April looks up sharply. She hadn't realized she was talking.

"Nothing," April says, but she doesn't even convince herself. John comes in menacingly close, lifting his gun from where it'd been resting at his side. "Nothing!" she repeats hysterically. "I'm sure it couldn't be!"

Margaret turns on her then, and suddenly she is more afraid of Margaret than John. She's never seen any of the old hags get upset, and Margaret just looks like she might actually be able to turn April into a frog. 

"What did you do?" Margaret asks, he voice calm. Her eyes are anything but.

"It was meant for John," April begs, because they have to know she would never curse a child. She didn't even know he had one!

"You cursed my son," John roars, and she crumples under the force of his anger, "My _seven-year-old_ son!"

And then regret and shame come to the party, and still there's the fear of John like this – she has no doubt now that he is a killer, and that she is going to die today. And she probably deserves it.

"What did you do?" Margaret asks again, this time calmer, and she pushes in front of John, pressing his gun down and out of April's face.

"I just wanted…" 

Having to say it out loud makes it sound so terrible. She can't help the tears running down her face. "I just wanted to make John fall in love with me."

Margaret's eyes go wide. "No," she says, stepping back. "Those books are all under lock and key! How did you find a spell?"

April looks down at the counter, letting her eyes roam over the crystals and herbs she has memorized. "I made one."

That makes Margaret tilt her head at April. She can see approval in Margaret's eyes, though there's obviously concern too, since John hasn't made any effort to put away his gun. "I wouldn't have thought you had it in you," she says. John makes a disgruntled noise, but Margaret just shushes him. "Tell me everything."

~~~

John leaves around nine with some spell ingredients and an incantation that might protect his son for a few years. April tries to apologize but he just glares at her coldly until she stops talking.

After John leaves, Margaret takes her back into her workshop and says, "Let's start from the beginning."

~~~

The cursed coin: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep going! Two more - next up is Sam's POV on "The Talk" with his dad.


	4. SAM POV on "the talk" (Sam and Dad discussing the curse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. John really did a lot of research on this, and after this, so did Sam. It's only referenced, but Sam's heart's desire is Dean (and that is likely the result of the curse, too, though again, I never put that explicitly in the text).

~~~

_Cette pièce achète_  
 _Votre convoitise accablant pour quelqu'un qui vous aime_  
 _Satisfait pour seulement un petit moment une fois que vous sommet_  
 _Mais celui qui vous donne le désir de votre coeur dans le lit_  
 _Gagnez votre amour en retour et briser le charme_  
 _Gardez notre secret_

Sam stares at it. French isn't his best language, but he understands well enough. 

"Sloppy spellmaking, sloppy translation, and sloppy casting," Dad says. "Her pronunciation was crap – and she did it on the fly, so my guess is she messed something up in the actual chant. So who knows what the actual outcome was."

Sam knows. He's known since he was seven. He just nods dumbly.

"I know you're young," Dad says, leaning forward into Sam's space. It's a strange sort of comfort for this kind of talk. "I would never give the birds and bees talk to a kid your age."

Sam's thirteen; some of the kids he knows have already had sex. He wonders if Dad really waited, like all old people seem to have. "I know about sex, Dad." 

He tries to keep his tone neutral, but obviously some disdain came through because Dad raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What do you know?"

Sam shrugs. "Not specifics," he says. "I know for guys it has to do with putting their dicks in someone else."

Dad's eyes go wide. Sometimes Sam just has to bait him; he has no clue just how much Sam knows. 

"Alright," Dad says, getting a hold of himself. "Then maybe this talk is too late. Have you had sex, son?"

Sam shakes his head. 

"Do you think about it?"

Sam can't say that he thinks about it _all_ the time, but that's only because he's so ashamed of what he wants that he spends a lot of time doing his best to think about anything else. "Sometimes."

Dad rubs a hand down his face. "Well, if you're grown up enough to think about sex, then you're grown up enough to understand the consequences. And because of this curse, they're going to be a lot bigger for you than for most folks."

This part, Sam knows about. He's been through health class in at least four different school districts, and he's lived with this curse since he was seven. He's pretty sure Dad is the one that doesn't understand here, and Sam is never going to tell him.

"Yes, sir."

Dad takes a deep breath and sighs it out. "I can tell you the girl's intention with the spell. I don't know how it will play out considering the way she executed it, but I'm sure you'll figure that out once you start having sex."

Sam sits very still. He's scared as hell.

"There are three parts. One is the main thrust of the spell, which is that I would want to have sex with her – a person who loved me. The second is that I couldn't tell anyone about the curse – that's the last line."

Sam nods. He'd figured that part out himself.

"And the third is the way to break the curse, which is that if she gave me my heart's desire. But if that happened, I would've also fallen in love with her."

Dad shudders. He's never liked witchcraft. He avoids it if he can, or leaves it to the professionals. 

"Near as I can tell, that means that once you start having sex, you'll have to continue having sex regularly – and with someone that cares about you, so no one night stands."

 _Like Dean_ , Sam thinks, but doesn't say out loud. He nods instead.

"The easiest way would be to find yourself a girlfriend and stick with her as long as you can. Obviously, with how much we're on the road, that's going to be tough. But there's the other part of the curse, too."

Dad holds Sam's eyes and Sam doesn't dare look away. This is the part he already knows, but he can't tell Dad, not ever.

"Now, it's probably going to take a while to figure out what the desire of your heart is. But if one of your girlfriends gives it to you, you're stuck with her. So be careful, and don't stray too far from basic, vanilla sex, except by yourself, until you figure out what that hot button is."

Sam is blushing furiously. He can feel the heat on his cheeks. He's sure Dad thinks it's because they're talking about sex, but Dean's been telling him stories for years now – nothing about sex could bother him anymore. Except the fact that the person he wants to have sex with is _Dean_ , which makes it pretty simple to avoid having anyone he _actually_ has sex with give him his heart's desire.

"If I don't have sex," Sam says, muddling through the consequences, "then the curse can't really start?"

Dad looks suitably impressed with the idea. Sam's not sure it'll matter, he's been masturbating since he was eight, and he has a feeling that sex with himself might count. But then again, you never know. Witchcraft is weird that way.

"I don't know, son, but I imagine that it can't hurt to put it off as long as you can."

Sam nods. He'd been planning to do that anyway. "There's no way to break the curse?"

Dad smiles ruefully. "She screwed us by having that caveat – since she put the thing that would break the curse into the spellmaking, she made it ironclad. Nothing can get you out of the curse except getting your heart's desire."

 _Shit._ Sam is screwed. He'll be screwed for the rest of his life, because there is absolutely no way he will ever get his heart's desire.

"Now, I don't think _you_ 'll ever be able to tell anyone about the curse," Dad says. "So I'd like to tell Dean, in case anything ever happens to me."

"No!" Sam shouts, regretting it as he sees surprise and annoyance cross Dad's face and then anger settle in to harden it. "I mean, no, Dad, please. I don't want Dean to know."

"Sam," Dad starts, but Sam interrupts him again. He's already pissed Dad off, might as well go the full nine yards.

"Dad, _please_. I don't want Dean to know. I don't want him to think I'm some kind of freak. I can handle this on my own."

Dad stops being mad just long enough to think about that. "I have to tell someone," he says. "I can't let you handle this alone if anything happens to me."

"Yes you can!" Sam shouts, pushing his luck even further. "I can do it by myself. I do lots of things by myself, I can handle this, too."

Dad sighs, looking at the ceiling like he expects there's a god up there to help. "What about Bobby?"

"No, Dad, no one. Please."

Dad sighs, but eventually nods his head. "But if you have any trouble with this thing, you have to tell me right away, you understand?"

"Yeah," Sam answers quickly. He knows better than to let Dad keep thinking about it when he's gotten the promise of what he wants. "Of course I will."

It's a lie – he's never going to discuss the curse with anyone, ever again, but Dad doesn't need to know that. He just needs to not tell anyone.

Dad ruffles his hair, and as Sam shifts to get himself out from under his Dad's hand, Dad grabs him into a sideways hug. It's touching for just a moment – before Dad makes it about wrestling, and Sam's trying to break out of his hold.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And keep going! We're back to the present with the next alternate POV, I'll include a link at the bottom back to Chapter 6.


	5. Sam POV after he moves to Chicago, fights with Dad and Dad fucks off

~~~

"I know something's going on, and I want you to tell me."

_"You'll know when –_

"I need to know _now_ , Dad. This is big, I can tell, and for some reason, you don't want me and Dean involved. I will keep Dean out of it for now if you want, but you shouldn't be doing this on your own – not if it's about demons."

 _"Sam, it's not just about demons. It's about_ you _."_

That brings Sam up short. What can he possibly mean, it's about him? What does he have to do with demons?

"What are you talking about?" Sam says. "I've never even seen a demon before."

 _"That's not true, son."_ He can hear the moment Dad crumbles, the moment of weakness when he gives in to the comfort of not having to carry a secret by himself. He wishes Dean could be part of this. _"You've had demons around you your whole life. I traced everything back, all the way to your mother's death. They've surrounded you. Every single town we lived in, there was at least one. That old librarian from Medford, Mrs. Buckholtz at the corner store in Indiana, Missy, that young maid that made up our rooms in Des Moines, at least one teacher in every school… Sam, you've been surrounded by demons your entire life._

Sam is thunderstruck. He feels disgusting. Filthy. He will never get clean.

"But… why?"

_"I don't know, son, but I know that there are other kids whose mothers died in fires just like yours. There's enough of them to make me wonder what that demon was planning."_

Dad's pause is ominous; Sam knows he's got a theory, and it's not a good one. "Tell me, Dad."

_"Son…"_

" _Tell_ me."

Dad sighs, and Sam tries to brace himself. He doesn't really know how to do that; he knows it's bad, but he doesn't have any idea how it might relate to himself. He closes his eyes.

 _"Sammy,"_ he says, and the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up. Dad hasn't called him that in years. Dad sighs again. _"I think the demons are watching over you. I think… I think you're one of a handful of chosen kids."_

Sam's shivers turn up the volume into full-on tremors that bring him to his knees, and his stomach violently ejects dinner onto the floor. He coughs and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Chosen for what?"

 _"I don't know, son. I don't know."_

Dad sinks into thoughtful silence and Sam falls back onto his ass, still trembling. He's numb, and there's nothing to do but wait. Dad's got a plan, he'll know what to do next.

 _"So will you help me find out which demon might be doing this?"_ he asks. _"I need a name. A true name."_

"What for?" Sam asks.

 _"I have a summoning. It works on any creature, but I need the true name."_

"Dad!" Sam shouts. Summoning a demon? _No way._

 _"Sam, I plan to ask this demon a thing or two about what it did to you, and what it did to my wife –_ your mother _. Do you really have a problem with that?"_

Sam shakes his head, then finally answers, "No, sir. I'll work on it."

 _"That's my boy."_

"Please don't tell Dean." Sam can't bear the thought of Dean knowing that Sam's a freak, chosen by a demon for who knows what.

 _"I didn't want to tell_ you _,"_ Dad answers. _I'll keep it from Dean as long as I can."_

Sam nods. Dean's the only one that could track him if he turned evil. He shivers again, his stomach lurching. _I won't_ , he promises himself. _I can make my own decisions, I won't go darkside._

Dad's voice interrupts his thoughts. _"There's one other thing, though."_

_Oh god_. Now what?

_"Those other kids? I set Ash on finding 'em. One's got some kind of mind control. Another's electrocuting people with his hands."_

Sam can feel all the blood drain out of his face. He waits, terrified.

_"I gotta ask, Sam. You got any funny business going on?"_

Sam swallows hard, the taste of bile making him gag again. "Yes, sir." His heart's in his throat. "I… um." What will Dad do if he tells the truth? 

"I can tell what Dean is feeling. And I can… I can make him come home, if I want him to. Or look at me, if we're in the same room."

Dad lets out a harsh breath on the other end of the line. _"That's almost telepathy,"_ he says. _"Have you tried actually speaking to him?"_

"N-n-no!" Sam's aghast that Dad would even suggest that. He already felt a little freakish about his connection to Dean, but it was easy enough to chalk it up to how close they were. "Why would I do that?"

_"That's good, son. Good. Now you know that this is probably because of that demon, right?"_

"Yes." Sam can feel Dean right now, a comforting presence in the back of his mind. He's somewhere warm, stretched out and comfortable – probably in the Impala, since he's a cheapskate and doesn't get a motel unless he needs to shower – and he's thinking about porn. Or masturbating. Something sexual. It's too laidback to be actual sex, but he's doing something in the back seat of the car. Sam smiles. He tucks the memory away in the depths of his mind.

_"You have to stop. I don't feel comfortable –"_

"Yes, sir, I understand. I'll turn it off." He used to be picky about what he sent Dean. It was carefully chosen, only thoughts that wouldn't give away how twisted he was, how much he loved Dean, way more than was appropriate. But Dean didn't seem to understand what was between them was unusual, so when Sam moved to California, he just opened it up full stream, let everything broadcast to Dean. He could feel the shift in Dean when he was near enough to receive it – he was more settled, less nervous. 

He shuts it down, slowly, like turning off a faucet. He can still feel Dean, and there's a sudden spike of anxiety and confusion. Sam'll get a phone call any minute now.

 _"That's my boy,"_ Dad says, pride evident in his voice. Sam wonders if he has any idea about him and Dean; he doesn't think Dad really understands. _"Let me know when you have a lead – I'll let you know where to meet me."_

Sam can't even get out a "yes, sir" before Dad hangs up. He breathes out heavily and puts his head in his hands. 

His phone rings less than ten seconds later and he puts it back up to his ear without even looking. "Dean."

 _"Hey, Sammy._ Sam can feel Dean's anxiety go up a notch. He has to focus. He can't let Dean know there's anything wrong. _"Everything okay?"_

"Yeah," Sam croaks, purposely making his voice froggy. "Just woke me up, jerk."

 _"Bitch,"_ Dean answers, and his mood immediately shifts back to relaxed and happy, and, Sam notices with a wry smile, the sexual feeling starts again. Definitely masturbation. _"Night, twerp."_

"Night." Without even thinking about it, Sam sends _I love you_ , and he can feel the corresponding smile in Dean's response. That's got to be the last one, though, so he reins it in, slowly, letting Dean think he's falling back asleep.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Sam turns off his connection to Dean, the visions start.
> 
> And now back to the main fic! [Chapter 6.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253129/chapters/71837187)


	6. Bobby's POV – Sam's phone call after killing Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Yeah, sorry if this is a spoiler for the main story. It wasn't obvious there and if Sam did everything right, Dean would never know. But this is what actually happened.

~~~

_"I killed them."_ Sam's shaky voice comes over the line. _"The demon is gone. And so is Dad. I shot them with the Colt."_

Bobby can hear the tears in Sam's voice. The poor kid. John probably begged Sam to shoot him. Damn fool Winchesters, doing this without any help.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Bobby says, shushing the boy as kindly as he can. "I know you're hurting, but you know what you got to do."

He can hear the scrape of the phone against Sam's skin that means he's nodding instead of speaking. Bobby waits. The Winchester boys are too well trained to leave a statement like that without an answer.

 _"Yeah,"_ Sam says after a second. _"Get Dad's body cremated, clean out the house and wipe it down, desecrate the summoning sigils."_

"Good," Bobby says. "And John's storage unit has to be cleaned out. I'll come meet you. Be there in six hours. You okay, Sam?"

 _"No,"_ Sam answers shortly. After a long pause, _"I have to call Dean."_

Bobby takes a deep breath. They've been hiding this from Dean for months; another twelve hours won't make things any worse. "Wait," Bobby says. "Just, wait until we get it cleaned up. We don't want him coming up there and snooping around."

 _"Okay,"_ Sam says. _"I can wait a little longer."_

"That's it, Sam. Keep yourself busy until I get there. It'll be six hours, give or take."

_"Thanks, Bobby."_

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the fic! [Chapter 10](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253129/chapters/71839566)


	7. Castiel's POV – Cas's reception in Heaven after he changed the timeline the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a whole lot going on behind the scenes with Castiel here, and mostly it wouldn't have even been in Castiel POV (yes, the NEXT 100k after this one was going to Castiel POV), so here it is.

~~~

Castiel lands softly, unsure of his welcome. The host has gone quiet since his announcement of the required adjustment in the timeline. It was unorthodox, yes, but surely saving his squadron and regaining them the chance to keep the Seal unbroken merited praise, not this deafening silence?

He could never have foreseen that The Righteous Man would fall so quickly. It had taken many years of fighting to reach Dean Winchester, but they had moved as fast as they could, tactics shifting as the landscape shifted, stealthier with every passing day and without the type of honor he was accustomed to. He shouldn't have expected honor from demons anyway. That had been a costly mistake his first few months in Hell. 

They had traveled as quickly as they dared, learning to hide their grace, bury it deeply within, and even pass for demons in some cases. Even so, skirmishes came regularly, and every time one of his brethren fell, Castiel grieved and firmed his resolve to move faster. 

The disappointment that gripped him when he finally made it to The Righteous Man was overwhelming. He could still see the body of his second lieutenant behind him, the demons desecrating it and taunting Castiel when he dared look. It was despair for his lost brothers and sisters that had spurred the decision to change the timeline, but it was the disgust at watching The Righteous Man flay a woman alive that sealed his resolve. He had sensed regret in Dean Winchester, but it didn't matter. The Seal was broken and the only way to prevent it was to go back in time and prevent Dean Winchester from selling his soul in the first place. Perhaps he could use the regret he sensed in the human to help him understand that he must not make the crossroads deal. 

When he arrives in Michael's anteroom, the other angels will not meet his eyes. They stare straight ahead and Castiel's certainty about his decision is shaken. He has always been impetuous, and moreso in the heat of battle, but surely a small measure of his grace is worth the cost of the first Seal?

"Castiel," Michael says, and Castiel makes his obeisance, bowing deeply. 

"Michael," Castiel returns, keeping his eyes low.

The sigh Michael heaves is nearly human in its depth. It reeks of disappointment. "What are we going to do with you, Castiel?"

A glance up shows Michael glaring at him with righteous anger. "Who are you to go against God's will?"

Castiel gasps. "I did not! I would not!"

"Castiel," Michael says, scorn coming through in his tone, if not his words. "The breaking of the first Seal is prophesied. You were not ordered to rescue The Righteous Man only if he did not break the Seal."

It is true; orders were simply to raise The Righteous Man. But surely averting the apocalypse is of the higher good? Certainly God would want them to protect the humans with whatever means necessary?

"I assumed the higher mission of protecting humanity would be worth a measure of my grace. Surely God would approve of saving countless human lives? Not to mention the other angels under my command?"

Michael stands, and Castiel bows apologetically. His heated response is inappropriate. He has never been able to control his tongue, not even in the presence of the archangels. "I apologize," Castiel says. "Yes, my orders were simply to raise The Righteous Man. They did not specify the condition of his soul, or the Seal."

"Then you understand why you are being stripped of your command. Why you must be punished for your mistake." Castiel looks up at Michael, at the hard set of his face, and knows he is to be jailed and tortured, perhaps for an eternity. 

"Because my judgment cannot be trusted," Castiel answers, returning to standing. If he is to be punished, he will not do it crouched in supplication. 

"Yes, Castiel." The guardians of the chamber step up behind Castiel and he lifts his chin. He does not regret his decision. If he has made Dean Winchester understand what is at stake and prevented the apocalypse at least for another few years and at most until a new Righteous Man is born, then it is worth the cost.

"Then do what you must. But know that I stand by my decision. And if I have prevented the death of even a few innocents, it was worth it."

Michael shakes his head. "You do nothing but bury yourself deeper, Castiel," he says, nodding at the guardians. "Take him away."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to the next alternate POV, Cas on Balthazar's jailbreak!


	8. Castiel POV on being broken out of Heaven's prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Heaven are bastards and one month in Heaven is like a century. The math on this took me forever please to witness me.

~~~

There is no sense of time in confinement. He has never been particularly good with time anyway, but having no rhythm to his existence means he is lost in the eddies of his own mind, unsure if it has been days or decades since he has seen another angel.

"Castiel."

His name is whispered, and it sounds odd in his ears. He wonders how long it has been since he has heard it spoken out loud. 

"Castiel, come now – surely you remember your name."

The voice is familiar, something from before, though his memory is hazy of anything but the most recent tortures. "I am Castiel," he says, though he isn't sure he believes it.

The laugh is more familiar, and a memory shifts into place, allowing Castiel to access _before_. "Balthazar."

"Shhhh, my friend. I know they broke your connection to the host, but we have to communicate more quietly if I'm going to break you out of here."

Castiel is confused but the bright possibility of freedom brings his mind back quickly. "How," he asks, remembering to be quiet.

"Well, some of us from the old squadron appreciated your grandiose gesture more than old Mike and Rafe, so we got ourselves assigned as guards. I have a spare key and let's just say everyone on duty tonight has your back."

~~~

"Where are we?" Castiel asks, looking around at the unfamiliar landscape. It is too mundane to be Heaven; colors are muted and mixed, the air currents too unpredictable. It must be Earth.

"Wisconsin, I believe," Balthazar says. "A pasture somewhere. It's as close as I dared get to the Winchesters."

The Winchesters. Castiel sneers. If not for them –

"They are pawns, as we are," Balthazar reminds him. "It's the archangels, Castiel. They are planning something, something truly awful. It will take all of us to prevent it."

Castiel nods. Balthazar's grace shines brightly for a moment, and Castiel's own grace resonates with it. He thinks he has been healed, too, as much as he can be from the cruelty of those he thought were brethren. "You mustn't tap back into the host, Castiel, you won't be safe."

"I understand," Castiel says. Perhaps this is his final punishment, to be cut off from the host, to have his grace fade, only to protect two stubborn humans who have no idea of the chessboard they are positioned on.

"We have been watching the Winchesters," Balthazar says, "And they are working with that demon, Crowley, to eliminate Lilith and her ilk. He's not to be trusted, but he wants to avert the apocalypse, so he is an ally. For now."

"And?" 

"And we don't know how badly the archangels want the apocalypse. If Lucifer's loyalists are all gone, will they start the apocalypse themselves? That is the question that remains."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the story! [Chapter 15](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253129/chapters/71843055)


	9. Sam and Cas adjusting to the guardian angel thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of cute Sam and Cas fluff.

~~~

Sam turns around to shut the door and nearly runs the angel over. "What are you doing?" he asks.

Castiel tilts his head in that curious way of his and says, "I am 'sticking close to you.' That's what Dean said."

Sam can't help a smile. "Yeah, Cas, that doesn't mean literally inches away from me all the time. And I need to go to the bathroom, so the other side of the door is just fine."

"But I can't 'keep my eyes on you' if you are on the other side of the door." Cas squints his eyes in a vaguely threatening manner. God help him, Sam thinks it's cute. He's sure he'd have a different opinion of the angel if he'd seen him in the bar like Dean had, but nothing about Castiel fits with what Dean described. If anything, he seems a little pathetic. 

"No one is going to attack me in my own bathroom," Sam says. "The human body has certain biological functions, and I guarantee you, you don't want to watch them all happen."

Cas looks doubtful for a second, but then carefully puts his hand on Sam's arm, his face full of compassion. "You are embarrassed," he says. "You needn't be. Embarrassment is fear of judgment from another; I shall not judge you. That isn't my place."

Sam shakes his head. "First off, embarrassment isn't always about judgment. Sometimes it's just about things that are meant to be private. Second, you are not watching me go to the bathroom, so just wait out here. Capisce?"

Cas narrows his eyes, but answers, "Fine."

Sam closes the door and rests back against it for a moment. He cannot believe that the first angel he's ever met is a) assigned to be his literal guardian angel by his brother and b) won't leave him alone even to go to the bathroom.

He doesn't look forward to explaining showers.

~~~

"Privacy, Cas," Sam huffs, running his hands through his hair because if he doesn't keep them busy he might punch something. "Alone time. You can't be with me literally every moment of every day."

"But I must," Cas says, and Sam shakes his head. He knows what's coming next. "Dean said –"

"Believe me, Dean is not someone that should ever be taken literally. He means keep me safe. It doesn't mean you need to be less than six inches from me at all times. I _need_ some time to myself, Cas."

"To do what?" Cas asks. 

"It doesn't _matter_!" Sam throws his hands up. "Listen, Dean and I lived like this for years when I was a kid, but at least I had time at school or at night when he went out to be alone. I just need to recharge my batteries, Cas, and you're exhausting."

"So you simply plan to sleep?" Cas asks. "I don't understand why you would mind my presence if you are asleep."

"Cas…" Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need to jerk off."

Cas's head tilts in confusion, and Sam's pissed at himself for using slang with the angel. "I need to masturbate, okay? I've been… well, never mind. Human bodies need to take care of their sexual urges, and I haven't had sex in a while, so…"

He lets the sentence hang, not really hoping that Cas will simply accept it without question. There's a chance that Cas will recognize his discomfort and let it go, but it's a small chance.

"I could dematerialize, if it's my physical presence that makes you uncomfortable," Cas says, and Sam lets his head drop to his chest.

"That's not _better_ , Cas." 

He sighs. The one thing about awkward conversations with Cas is that it forces him to really examine his automatic reactions to things, to put words to them. "Masturbation is private. It's for me. I don't want to share it. Besides, having someone else involved in sexual activity – even just watching – makes them part of it in a way that…" He closes his eyes, trying not to squirm on the outside as much as he is on the inside. "It will change our relationship in a way you don't want."

Cas's head tilts even further to the side, and says, "I don't understand. I will still be your guardian. You will still be my charge. What will change?"

Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head. He shouldn't have put that on Cas. It's not Cas that'll change. But for that matter, it will only encourage Sam's strange little crush, and considering Cas's feelings will never change, that's not any better. And then there's the part of him that wants Cas to stay, and not just to teach him a lesson. He sighs.

"Being involved in someone else's sexual activity – even on the periphery – usually means that there is a sexual component to your relationship. Since we will never have a sexual relationship, it's uncomfortable for me to have you around when I'm doing something like masturbate. And should I ever have sex again, the same holds true."

Cas considers this for a moment, and then looks Sam in the eye. Sam wants to back away from that look – it almost always means Cas has seen something Sam doesn't want him to. "You have been in the same room as your brother when doing these activities," he says. "Does that mean you have a sexual relationship with Dean?"

The room tilts slightly sideways – how the hell would Cas know about that? They were kids, it was a long time ago! Is he reading Sam's mind, or Dean's? "How do you know about that?" he asks, unable to keep the menace out of his tone.

"It's wrapped around your words," Cas says, and before Sam can even think of how to answer that, Cas continues. "Everything you are say has the impression of Dean about it, and this one is in direct opposition to how you feel about me in relation to this subject."

Mind-reading. Sam hadn't considered it seriously, but suddenly he knows he's going to have to research protection on that front, especially if Cas is going to be this close _all the time_. "You shouldn't do that," Sam says. "If I want you to know something, I will _tell_ you."

Cas straightens – which is a feat since he always seems to be standing ramrod straight – and says, "I am not reading your mind. I could do that, but it takes a considerable amount of energy and most humans are not worth the trouble. Their thoughts are confusing and contradictory." Something shifts in Cas then. It's minute, and if Sam hadn't been goggling at him, he might have missed it. It feels almost like compassion. "You are the one that imbues your words with emotion, Sam. I am simply reading your words on multiple levels. Your words always have Dean in them, but these words also had shame in them, which has never happened before. At least in relation to Dean."

Sam bows his head. His feelings about Dean are complicated, and not entirely under his control.

"Is this about the curse on you?" Cas asks, and Sam's world tilts sideways again. 

"You know about that?"

"I can see it, attached to your soul. It's what hid you from my brothers and sisters, before Balthazar's sigils." Sam opens his mouth to ask the question, but Cas is answering before he can get his words out. "Yes, your soul is hidden beneath this curse, which is why they were unable to find you until recently."

"Great." Sam sighs. He supposes it's a good thing that the curse is doing something positive for once. It's about time, since it's been ruining his life for seventeen years. 

"It doesn't seem to be causing you harm," Cas says. If only he knew. 

"It's… complicated," Sam answers. 

"What are the curse's parameters?" Cas asks, and Sam sighs. So much for time to himself tonight. 

"From what my dad told me, the curse makes me want to have sex with someone I care about until I come – but only without telling my partner verbally what I like. And apparently, should anyone actually give me my deepest, darkest desire, I'll fall in love with them."

He's not worried about that part of the curse; there's no way anyone but Dean could give him that. The curse itself is a gigantic pain in the ass though; it makes him crazy when he's not in a steady relationship. He's been missing Dave something fierce.

"Does masturbation work to slake the desire?" Cas asks, and Sam's so embarrassed that he's even having this conversation, though it is nice to have someone to talk with about it. 

Sam shrugs. "If I take my time and use my imagination, that'll work for a little while."

If it gets bad though, he'll need to go hunting for a significant other, or at least someone he can have a decently long fling with.

Cas nods solemnly. "I will give you your alone time. Pray if you need me."

Sam shakes his head. "Yeah, will do, Cas."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! There is one more scene, the Wincestiel sex scene that I wrote super early on and was just sort of PRAYING would hold together until I got there. I didn't quite get there; I was close, damn it! But not there. So everything after this is notes/outlines/that 8k sex scene somewhere in here. All titles are pretty explicit as to what they are.


	10. Sam POV: Brief intro to time travel discussion with Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the rest of Dean's POV was basically going to be trying to execute Sam's plan to kill the demons until Dean accidentally touched the coin that cursed Sam and got cursed himself. Then Wincestiel sex scene and discussion of time travel - Dean insisting Cas go back to the point where Sam was cursed in order to prevent it, so that the sex would never have happened. Then on to Cas's POV, which is another 100k, but surprise! Cas did NOT go all the way back to when Sam was cursed because he has his own plans. SO ANYWAY - the next few entries here are things I have around that.

"You went back in time to prevent Dean from making the deal," Sam says. "To save your brothers and sisters. Believe me, we get that."

"You may understand my motivations," Cas says, "but you could never understand the sacrifice, or the mechanics of timeline adjustment."

Sam chuckles, in the way he does when he thinks Cas being an angel is kind of cute. It grosses Dean out, he's not cute. He's a fucking machine with no feelings. 

"Maybe you should explain it," Sam says. "I'd like to know more about time travel."

"Humans' perception of time is too limited," Cas answers, and Sam just keeps grinning. Dean is going to throw up in a minute. 

"Try us," Sam says, and gives Cas his best puppy dog eyes, which is a waste, because clearly Cas won't be affected by such a simplistic –

"Fine," Castiel says. 

_Damn._ Dean has seriously underestimated the power of Sam's puppy dog eyes.


	11. Demon names on Crowley's list

Lilith is the first demon  
Azazel, Asmodeus, Ramiel, Dagon are her children  
Amon and Halphas are Azazel's son and daughter  
Mammon is Asmodeus's son  
Phenex and Vassago are Ramiel's daughter and son  
Zagan is Dagon's daughter


	12. More info about timelines, a bit of prose from Dean's POV

When Sam asks what it means about changing the path, Cas explains that there are not an unlimited number of alternate realities out there – there are only angelic choices that change the way of things, like what he did by coming back and saving Sam. As angels are multi-dimensional beings, they exist only once in all of the universes that have ever been created; they must choose the dimension they truly exist in; time is of no consequence, when they create a new reality, the entirety of it is encapsulated in the "new" angel. The "old" angel turns around to face himself and they meld, folding in all the experiences and bringing them together to the singular angel, who then decides which reality to continue in.

[Find a way to indicate here that the future is like a tree, based on human decisions, and you can only see so much (to the end of the lifetime of the person whose life you're changing), but there's a heavy statistical thing going on based on how thick the branches of the tree of possible outcomes are. Metaphors: trees, veins, a dark sickness in the Lucifer storyline]

~~~

"But wait," Dean says, "what happens to the other realities?"

"They exist, frozen in time," Cas says. "Like a fossil."

"But if all angels can do that," Sam says, scowling in the way that means he's trying to wrap his head around the idea, "then why don't the ones who want Dean to go to Hell just keep trying to come back and change things until they go the way they want?"

"It takes a measure of Grace," Cas says. "The more time you displace, the more Grace you spend to crystalize the other timelines. I went back about sixteen months in Earth time; it took a not-insignificant amount of my Grace. I mistakenly thought they would appreciate that I saved many angels from falling in the charge to release you from Hell."

"And does your Grace heal?" Sam asks. "Will you get it back?"

Cas frowns. "Eventually, but it takes a long time to restore grace. Years. That is why most angels do not risk it. Also, humans are unpredictable – sometimes the changes create unforeseen outcomes." One corner of Cas's mouth twitches minutely. 

_Wonder if that's what a smile looks like on an angel_ , Dean thinks, and immediately dismisses it. From what he's seen so far, angels aren't the smiling type.


	13. General notes about the curse and the way it affected Sam

Just a general thought: I hadn't really realized until the other day that the coin made Sam fall in love with his brother. I basically thought it pushed Sam over the Wincest edge on the sexual front, but no, the way the curse is shaping up, it's the fact that Dean touches him first that basically dooms Sam forever – he's never been touched before, he has no "deepest darkest desire" until then – and immediately, his "deepest darkest desire" becomes Dean. And then he always sort of works his sex life around Dean, so it just keeps reinforcing the spell, which of course never ends, really. Maybe I need to build in an ending – something about relief from the overwhelming sexual desire when you get your deepest darkest secret? Because then when Sam finally has sex with Dean, it will actually BREAK the curse. Actually Sam's deepest darkest desire isn't sex with Dean – it's that Dean loves him, and says so, WITHOUT SHAME. {AND HELLO PART 3 BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT THE ENTIRE SAM POV IS GOING TO BE ABOUT.]


	14. Notes about the rest of Dean POV and the sex scene that I was trying to get to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the sex SUPER early on, so there is definitely some stuff that doesn't suit after I've written nearly 80k buildup to get there. I think it still _mostly_ fits and I vaguely remember thinking it was pretty good so here it is. There are some non-con elements here! Dean is definitely conflicted about this! It is not soft and fluffy conflict-free Wincest or Wincestiel. (Ultimately, it was going to get to Wincestiel, I didn't finish it though.) Cas is riding Dean's cock, though, so while the feels are mostly Wincest, the sex (as it's currently written) is mostly Destiel, so.

Since the curse already worked on Sam, he kept the coin. Sam thought the coin focused his Dean-wrangling mystical energies. He uses it when he actively wants to communicate with Dean via demon-powered telepathy. And usually he's very careful with it (the last thing he wants is Dean knowing he has a focus for that sort of thing) but… what? Sam gets into an accident? Dean snoops? Eh, can decide this later. At any rate, then can move onto the sex (FINALLY) and then the argument with Cas and Cas's POV.

~~~

_Des Moines, Iowa, 2007_

"There has got to be a way out of this," Dean says for the hundredth time, pacing to the bed as soon as Cas zaps them into their motel room. "We incinerated the damn coin. Isn't the curse supposed to… just not work anymore?" 

Cas shakes his head. "Not all curses work like that. The curse remains until the requirements are met."

"But Dad did that thing with Sammy when he got cursed…" Dean looks to Sam for confirmation, but Sam just shrugs. He never could remember that night.

"I believe he delayed the consequences," Cas says. "Sam probably took care of it on his own some years later."

Sam huffs out a disbelieving breath. "Sure, why not."

Cas looks at Sam with something approaching exasperation. "You tend to respect your partners," he says, "and you have an open heart." He tilts his head, staring at Sam for a moment before adding, "And you weren't particularly communicative in your first few encounters, were you?"

That shuts Sammy up but good, and he pouts in the direction of the floor. Dean thinks back to those weeks with that kid, what-his-name, how quiet Sammy always was, how he'd seemed afraid to make any noise.

"So I have to have sex," Dean starts, and Cas finishes with, "with someone you love who feels the same about you." 

"This sucks," Dean says for millionth time. "Why would anyone make a bullshit cursed object like this?"

"Judging by the spellwork, it was made by someone with little practical knowledge," Cas says, and Dean just shakes his head. The last thing he wants to do is get a boner while listening to Sam or Cas talk about work.

"Whatever. Let's get this done. Someone I love…" Which really limits his choices.

"Sam or me," Cas agrees, as if he's reading Dean's mind. "If you would prefer a woman, I can find Jo, Ellen, or…" Cas tilts his head. "Possibly Pamela, but I am not certain she meets the requirements."

"No," Dean says, ready to take a hot poker to his brain for providing images of him having sex with the woman who is like a mother to him or her daughter, who isn't _exactly_ like a sister to him, but close enough that he doesn't want to fuck it up with something like this. And Pamela is just a no-go all around. He's not going to give her Winchester fetish any ammunition.

"Shannon?" Sam asks. 

Dean's heart drops. He's not sure he'd call what he had with Shannon _love_ , exactly, and after… everything… he doesn't think it's fair to bring this to her doorstep. He shakes his head.

"So, that leaves me or Sam," Cas repeats, like maybe it'll be less horrible if he keeps saying the words. "I understand your reluctance to engage in sexual activity with your brother, so that means I am the obvious choice." 

Dean musters up the wherewithal to put on his game face. "You're a virgin, Cas, you sure you'll be able to satisfy me?"

"I know the mechanics," Cas says, with a vague flatness to his face that Dean knows is as close as he gets to irritation. "I know more of the breadth and depth of human copulation than you do, Dean Winchester. But I don't know what you might prefer, which is why I need Sam's help. If I am not allowed to communicate with you, then I will have to rely on Sam's ability to read your reactions."

Dean turns to stare at Sam. He'd thought Sam was there because Cas was offering him up as one of the options. He assumed once he chose Cas (of course he's choosing Cas, _never touch your brother like that again_ ), Sam would leave, or Cas would snap him somewhere far away but safe, or –

"Also, Sam has experience with sex between males of your species, so we may need his expertise."

Dean turns a pleading look on his brother. _Come on, man._

"Cas is right," Sam says bluntly, leaning back against the room divider and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Oh come on," Dean complains. "You don't know anything about what I like." He starts pacing again, but stops after three steps as the friction of his jeans gets too intense.

"I know how to read you," Sam says, shrugging his shoulders like this is all no big deal. "And I've watched and heard you have sex a hell of a lot more than you think. Did you really think I was sleeping?"

Dean glares. It's not like he brought women back to the hotel room every night when Sammy was growing up. Cas turns his searchlight look on Sam all of a sudden and Sam meets his eyes for just a second before he looks away. Dean's not sure what happened there, but he's pretty sure he doesn't like it. He sighs and sits down on the nearest bed. "Can't we do the delaying thing? Just redo it every few years until I die?"

Cas shakes his head. "I think it only worked for Sam because this curse isn't meant for children. The curse itself was inclined to wait."

Sam clears his throat. "Probably better to get started. The longer we wait…"

Dean gives Sam a death glare, turning it on Cas for good measure. "So the other part, the satisfaction thing?"

"Your partner has to bring you to completion without any direct communication from you." 

And then, without warning, Dean is suddenly flat on his back, spread-eagled, his arms and legs held by some invisible force.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He struggles against the invisible restraints, pulling as hard as he can and getting nothing but a cramp in his calf. Cas leans down and presses two fingers to it and the muscle unclenches.

"Try to relax, Dean," Cas says. "This should not be a traumatic experience."

That just makes Dean pull on the restraints harder.

"Cas, Dean's freaking out," Sam says, and damn straight he is freaking out - being tied up is a bad thing, inevitably it means getting hurt or watching Sammy get hurt and not being able to do anything about it. There is no way this is going to happen with Dean having no control over his arms and legs. "Cas," Sam says again, gently. "Let him go."

Cas looks at Sam, his concerned frown and tilted head trying to make something out and obviously not comprehending. "But if he indicates his preferences –"

"I'm a big boy," Dean says, trying to keep the hysteria out of his voice, "I can keep my hands to myself!" 

Sam snorts at Dean's outburst, and Dean turns his head to glare. Sam just grins smugly and snorts again. Cas releases his hold on Dean's limbs, though, and Dean's arms fly upward with alarming speed. He uses the momentum to sit up and then immediately gets off the bed, prowling to the window and staring out it, keeping his back to Sam and Cas. 

"It's probably not his hands you have to worry about," Sam says, and Dean can hear the smirk in his voice, the smug asshole. "It's his mouth."

 _Oh, come on,_ Dean says, but doesn't say. He whirls around, putting a hand to his throat. _Cas? What did you do?_ No sound is coming out of his mouth and the freak-out that started with the restraints reasserts itself. _Cas!_

"Freaking out," Sam sing-songs, and Cas purses his lips, looking truly annoyed. "Let him talk." 

Cas turns to look at Dean like he's not sure this is a wise idea. 

"You can't do shit like that, Cas," Dean says. He puts a hand over his eyes and squeezes them shut, giving in to the inevitable. "I'll ne–" _ver get off if I'm not in control of myself._ Dean glares at Cas, who pointedly ignores him and turns to Sam. 

"Restraints are bad," Sam says, and it is so unfair that his voice is clear as a bell. "Not being in control is Dean's worst nightmare. We've got to find a different way to keep him quiet."

Dean clears his throat and is relieved to hear it, not to mention to have all the eyes in the room on him. "Or I could just not say anything."

Sam gives him a look that clearly says he's full of shit. "You're not loud about it, but you like to talk. Do you really think you can keep a handle on it, if things go the way they're supposed to?"

Dean frowns. It's weird that Sam remembers this stuff – he hasn't had sex with Sam in the room in years, way back when he was in grade school and ostensibly sleeping while Dean made out with his date du jour on the couch.

"Make it so he can talk but we can't hear him."

 _"Hey!"_ Dean says, and thank god, he can hear his own voice. Sam is smirking like he's won the lottery, though, and Dean curses a blue streak.

"I can still read his lips," Cas says, and Dean can't help rolling his eyes.

 _"You're a dick sometimes,"_ he says, relishing Cas's raised eyebrow.

"I saw that."

"Close your eyes, Cas," Sam says. "It'll help with the rest of it, too." 

Cas closes his eyes without any hesitation, one of those moments of sheer trust in them that makes Dean's heart clench. It's like the room itself lets out a sigh of relief. Dean hadn't realized how much weight went along with Cas's gaze. _"That's way better,"_ he says. He nods in Sam's direction when it's obvious that Sam can't tell what the hell he's saying. 

Sam's smile changes from smirky to genuine and Dean is half-grateful he's got Sam looking out for him, and half-sick that he's putting Sam through this. Not that Sam seems to be complaining, but it can hardly be anything more than awkward and uncomfortable and something they're never going to talk about again, ever. 

"Okay, Dean, why don't you get Cas over to the bed. The sooner we start…"

 _"The sooner this nightmare is over, I got it already."_ Dean takes a deep breath and puts a hand on Cas's arm, dragging him toward the bed by his trench coat. He shoves Cas down, sitting next to him on the bed and feeling the nerves as his heart really kicks it into gear.

"The trench is going to have to go, Cas," Sam says, "and probably the suit –"

And then they're naked. 

"Slow down!" Sam says, laughing, but Dean sees him turn his head away from them slightly. "If there's one thing Dean's not, it's wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am."

Their clothes are back on before Dean can even really feel that uncomfortable about the whole thing; he didn't really see or feel much of anything, and Sam's reaction caught his attention before he could think about it himself. It's not like they haven't seen each other naked, though this situation is weirder than most.

"Why don't you start with kissing?" Sam suggests, and Dean shoots him a look. He's not actually that into kissing, and it seems even weirder thinking about doing it with Cas. Sam raises an eyebrow at him. "He doesn't like kissing that much, but I have a feeling he's just waiting for someone to take charge and show him how it's done."

 _"What?!"_ Dean rages, but before he can start in on his screed, Cas is there, and taking charge is the understatement of the year. He places his hands on Dean's skull, lifting him off the bed just enough for Dean to be scrambling to put a knee down, and fitting their mouths together like a Chinese puzzle box. Dean puts his arms up in self-defense, bracing himself against Cas's shoulders, trying to gain some purchase, but Cas is unstoppable. 

Dean hears Sam's voice but not the words; he sounds cajoling, almost teasing, and then the kiss changes into something less demanding. Cas pulls back just enough so Dean can breathe, and feel the hot air of Cas's breath against his lips. "Sorry," Cas murmurs, coming in for another kiss, still intense but questioning. His tongue traces the contours of Dean's mouth until Dean can't help but pull him in, anything to stop the damn teasing.

One of Cas's hands slides down Dean's neck, a trail of friction and heat that makes his dick sit up and pay attention. Then it moves around to his back, pulling him closer in a possessive gesture that surprisingly turns Dean on even more. The spell must be kicking in hard core because he's suddenly dying to get this show on the road. Screw the kissing and maidenly protests, he wants skin, and he wants it now. 

He can't do anything obvious, though, nothing that would count as communication, so he breaks Cas's kiss long enough to get Sam's attention and raise his eyebrows, which can't count as real communication, even between Winchesters. Sam is watching them with interest – possibly too much interest, but Dean can't really muster up the juice to care because he wants to get moving and Sam's his translator for this show. Sam nods and Dean goes back to the murderously languorous kissing, fisting his hands in Cas's trench coat.

"Okay," Sam says softly, a low murmur. "I think naked is on the menu now. Maybe just from the waist up for starters." 

When the trench coat disappears and Dean's left holding nothing in his hands, he puts them on Cas's shoulders, mentally shaking his head as he pulls back to look at him. Cas's shoulders aren't skinny, exactly, but under Dean's hands, he can see just how fragile Cas's vessel really is; he's not built like a Winchester, broad shoulders and muscles enough to do the work. Before he can get a grip on the half-naked situation, he's being pushed inexorably down to the bed. Cas may not have the muscles of a Winchester, but he's got ten times the strength, and there's no pushing back.

Cas hesitates mid-push. Sam might have said something, Dean thinks, but it doesn't matter, he knows what they have to do and there's no point in pussyfooting around. He lies back, pulling Cas down by the shoulders, which Cas takes as permission for more kissing. It was permission, Dean supposes, and concentrates on Cas's mouth and not Cas's knee tucked up against his balls.

Cas shifts, stretching himself up along Dean's body, their chests and stomachs meeting while Cas keeps his iron grip on Dean's skull, making something in Dean roll over and die because it feels like Cas is cradling Dean, holding him close like something infinitely precious. 

"Branch out a little," Sam says, and the scrape of a chair on the linoleum makes Dean break away from the kissing and look over at him. Sam plops himself down into the crappy chair and leans back until the front two legs are off the ground. "Figure out where Dean's sensitive." Cas has already moved on to Dean's neck and that's just never been Dean's thing, and if he tries to stick his tongue in Dean's ear he's going to scream, spell be damned. "Try his wrists," Sam says, and Dean shoots him a look. Wrists? Seriously? 

Cas takes the direction seriously, the hand not holding Dean's head groping for Dean's forearm and bringing it to Cas's mouth, his tongue experimentally sliding over the thin skin at Dean's wrist. It feels like a star went supernova in his chest, electricity from his wrist straight to his dick. He can hear himself whine and for the moment, he's pretty damn thrilled that Sam and Cas can't hear him.

"...that girl in Indiana when Dean was nineteen."

Dean tunes in to what Sam's saying at the very end of his story, and it shakes the memory loose; they were making out on the couch – for hours, it felt like – and they'd traded off trying to turn each other on by doing more and more outlandish things. He found the spot in the middle of her palm, and she returned the favor by licking his wrists.

And Cas is a hundred times better than that girl was, methodical in his approach, harder, softer, wet, teeth. Dean might go crazy if Cas doesn't do something to alleviate the pressure building inside him.

He hears the lilt of Sam's voice again, a soothing background noise to the buzzing that's started under his skin, and then a rush of cool air on his legs as Cas magicks off the rest of their clothes. _Finally,_ Dean says, reaching out the hand Cas isn't currently torturing to find something to touch.

He's intercepted, though, strong fingers circling his wrist and pulling his arm upward, trapping his hand above his head, and that's just not fair. Sex is only fun if both people are playing the game. 

It takes a disgustingly long moment for Dean to realize Cas's hands are busy on parts of his body that aren't his right hand, so that means… He looks up, and Sam is crouching next to the bed, pressing Dean's arm into the pillow above his head. 

_What?_ Dean asks, all the mojo they'd built withering in a split second as he meets Sam's eyes. _Sammy?_

"It's okay," Sam says, his voice still soothing, and Dean's skin buzzes with the sound of it. "Cas just needs a spare set of hands."

 _It's not okay,_ Dean says, and Sam smiles down at him like maybe he could read Dean's lips that time. 

"Relax," Sam says. "I've got you."

The guilt and shame that bubble up the back of his throat only make whatever Cas is doing to his wrist ten times more intense, and he turns his head away from Sam, trying to concentrate on Cas's mouth on his skin.

"Cas," Sam says, and Dean cannot help himself when he looks at his brother. He's conditioned to look at Sam whenever he speaks, it's been an instinct way too long for him to ignore – unless it might get them killed. Sam's brow is furrowed, his worried face, mixed with the stubborn set of his jaw that means he's concentrating.

"Yes," Cas says, and Dean watches Sam roll his eyes, annoyance radiating loud and clear. "Sorry," Cas says and Sam huffs out a bark of a laugh. 

"Stop. Talking." Sam raises his eyebrows at Cas and Cas makes the "ohhhhhh" face, and nods. 

_No, no, no,_ Dean says, panic rising up in his chest, warring with all the other sensations that are about to make him throw up, _do_ not _go radio silent on me now._

"Don’t worry," Sam says, squeezing his wrist. "I'll take care of you."

 _That's not the way this is supposed to work._ Dean takes care of Sam, that is the way it has always been and he's not sure he can just give that up, especially right now. 

Sam smiles down at Dean and Cas nips at his wrist and Dean can't do anything but close his eyes. Sam starts talking again – to Dean this time, soft soothing stories of girls and women he remembers Dean with, things that might make Dean smile if his heart wasn't trying to pound its way out of his chest. Why does Sam remember all those women? Dean can barely remember most of them.

Cas abruptly stops what he's doing, taking Dean's wrist and pushing it over his head to join the other one. Dean's eyes fly open because something is going on and oh, shit, Sammy takes his other hand too, his right hand in Dean's left, squeezing reassurance with their palms pressed together. "It's okay," Sam says again, and launches into a story about Amber, a girl Dean dated for almost a month in Texas. 

Guilt settles in his chest again, he can hear his father's voice loud and clear, feel the red-hot sting of his father's slap, and some shameful part of him can't help moaning when he realizes Sam is passing his thumb back and forth over the thin skin at Dean's wrist.

"She caught me watching." 

Dean's stomach drops like someone put a stone in it. Sam was watching. Was he always? How –

"I put two fingers in my mouth," Sam says and Dean can remember Amber going down on him clear as day, wondering what had gotten into her because that had never even come close to being on the menu in the weeks before. "She smiled at me and went straight to work," Sam says, and suddenly Dean can feel something warm and wet on his neck and that _has_ to be Cas's tongue because Sam is still talking, something about all the times Amber checked in with Sam after that, how she'd be sure he was watching before she did anything. Cas's attention on his neck gives him something to think about that isn't how completely fucked up his brother is, how Sam watched him have sex for years, was actually part of what was going on, and he can feel the heat on his face, shame on him for not noticing, for not protecting Sammy, for not –

"Shhh," Sam says, his thumb flicking over Dean's wrist again. Some vague part of him realizes Cas is tasting him, licking the skin on his chest and stomach, making his dick twitch with interest like it always does when a mouth gets in the vicinity. 

"It wasn't her I was watching, Dean."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall to the side. He failed. He failed Sam so badly, he will never be able to look him in the face again.

"Don't," Sam says. "I know it's not just me. You watched me, too."

 _Tell me you remember_. Dean can hear it tacked on to the end of Sam's sentence as if he'd said it out loud, a caress in his mind, like someone petting his hair, comforting. Dean nods, once. He remembers the back seat, that moment he looked in the rearview and met Sam's eyes, knowing, somehow, that Sam needed that from him.

"Hey," Sam says gently. "You're getting an angelic blowjob. Maybe you should pay attention." 

He's still hard - and that's a mindfuck, considering how much everything with Sam basically makes him want to curl up in fetal position forever – and Cas is going to town, the most enthusiastic cocksucker he's ever seen, though truth be told he hasn't seen that many, at least not up close. No two strokes are the same, as if Cas is trying out every possible variable of speed and pressure and slick. He watches, entranced by Cas's mouth, his eyes closed and concentration wrinkling his forehead. It's such a human expression Dean can't help smiling. He feels better all of a sudden, the weight of the whole thing lifting off him. It's a spell. It's not him, it's not them, it's just a spell and it doesn't mean a thing, none of it. Not the angelic blowjob or the hands on his wrists, nothing. 

He focuses on Cas, Sam's voice just background noise, a soothing backdrop to [FINISH]

Dean closes his eyes. He can't handle watching Cas meditatively slide up and down on his dick. He's already done all his experiments and he knows where Dean's sweet spot is, just right, keeping everything strung tight.

"It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

"All I ever wanted was for you to lay a hand on me," Sam says softly, a subtle huff of air that might be a laugh if the occasion called for it. "From the time I was seven." Dean's heart drops. Sam always said he didn't remember anything.

"I didn't know what happened to me that night," Sam continues, "but I knew things were different. And I knew it was bad – _I_ was bad – and I tried everything to change. I was masturbating at eight, Dean. And I didn't even know what I wanted, just that the only way to make it work, to get there, was to think about you touching me." He chuckles again, still soft, but real humor behind it. Dean closes his eyes tighter, listening to Sam's words, feeling them resonate in all the places he normally keeps locked down tight. 

"Don't you know why I was still a virgin at seventeen?"

"Are you listening, Dean?" _Really listening?_

Dean's listening, he can't not listen, but he can't meet Sam's eyes, either, so it's just Sam's voice whispering in his ear, mingled with Cas breathing – and he hadn't even realized angels needed to breathe, but there it is, like Cas might actually be having a feeling or something. Dean can hear a hitch in Cas's throat, like he wants to talk, but Sam is doing the talking for all of them, it seems. Because even though Dean is not planning on saying anything, maybe ever again, Sam can read him better than anyone ever has, and all the things Dean thought he was hiding from Sam were plain as the nose on his face.

 _Don't, Dean_ , Sam says, and Dean closes his eyes. It makes it easier to shut out what Sam's saying.

"So here's the thing I know about the spell," Sam says, now that he has Dean's full attention. "It takes the thing you really want, something you might have not even remembered, and makes it the only thing you can think about."

He has a sudden picture in his mind, looking up at that boy Sam lost his virginity with. There's a tussle, something fast and clean and then he's looking down at the boy – Jason, yeah, that was his name – and he's pinned to the bed, the way Sam'd pinned Dean a million times when they were wrestling. Then he pushes up, takes in the whole length of the naked boy, and turns his head a little, just enough to see someone on the second bed in the dark motel room. It's Dean. He just knows it's him, he can feel it like an electric current, that he was in the other bed while they fucked, and that he'd watched, apparently just like Sammy'd watched him all those years.

"You never pinned me again after that," Sam says conversationally. 

_"Maybe I just got smart."_ Dean can't help looking up at Sam, he hasn't had him in his sights for at least ten minutes. Sam's hands have been on his wrists, so he knows Sam's there, but he hasn't seen Sam's face, hasn't been able to read his reactions. _"No point in pinning you if you're just going to turn it around on me."_

Sam quirks up one corner of his mouth, something he did as a kid all the time but seemed to have grown out of as an adult. It means that he knows he's right and nothing Dean says will ever convince him otherwise – but he knows Dean's going to try because that's what Dean does.

"You can say no as much as you want," Sam says, pausing until Dean meets his eyes. "I know you want this, so I'm not going to stop. That's how we break the spell."

 _"No, I don't want this,"_ Dean says out loud to no one but himself. He would try to get Cas on his side but he's sitting on Dean's cock, eyes closed and looking more blissed out than Dean expected by the whole situation.


	15. Dean POV: Aftermath of the sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically angst, plus the notes for the transition to part 2 (Cas POV starting from when the Winchesters were small.)

Dean swallows thickly, the tears not started yet, but that's good because once they come, they won't stop any time soon. He let his little brother fuck him, he'd wanted it even as he'd hated himself for wanting it, and all of this is secondary to the fact that Sam has been fucked up by that damn curse since grade school and Dean _never noticed_. He never did anything, he never tried to fix it, and now it's nearly twenty years later and weight of the compiled failure over those years is choking him, almost as much as the sound of Sam in his mind, no words now, just love. The feeling is so familiar that Dean knows Sam's been projecting it as long as he's known he's had his gift, and maybe well before. He swallows again to keep from throwing up at the thought of it. "Leave me alone," he says, waiting for Cas to climb off of him.

He can't look at either of them. He can see Sam out of the corner of his eye – he can't not notice Sam, and isn't that a punch in the gut, knowing what he knows now. "Let's go, Cas," Sam says. "He needs some time."

Cas tilts his head curiously and Dean closes his eyes. He can't stand the way they're looking at him, like he shouldn't feel sick with this, ruined and empty and worthless. The sound of wings signals their departure and Dean curls up on his side, letting his shame carry him into sleep.

~~~

Dean paces. It's a simple, elegant solution. There's no way either of them could possibly have a problem with it.

He paces some more.

~~~

"I've been thinking about it since I was seven," Sam says, rubbing a hand over his face in the way that Dean knows means he's trying to figure out how best to sell his next statement. "And you've been trying _not_ to think about it since I was seven."

Dean takes a breath to argue, but Sam puts his hand up and he holds the thought, not sure what he was going to say anyway. Whatever it was, he's pretty sure it would've been a lie.

"That's the whole point, Dean. We're not supposed to think about it or try not to think about it. Normal siblings don't do that. It doesn't even register." He smiles, the smile Dean knows is simple acceptance - he's come to terms with the shitstorm of their lives somehow, and it's the one part of Sammy he cannot understand, has never been able to understand. "That curse screwed me up - and you, too, though I didn't realize that until a lot later."

Dean opens his mouth, half-grinning, the denial completely formed and ready to come out until he looks at Cas's face, the "I'm so sorry, Dean" face that he uses more often than Dean would like. Their lives are fucked up. He knows this; he lives it - he doesn't need to be reminded of it on Cas's face, in the way he wears it like the ill-fitting suit he's always got on.

"You," Dean snaps, pointing an accusing finger at Cas. "Wipe that look off your face. This is hard enough with Sam being all _reasonable_ , I don't need your pity."

"Back off," Sam says. "This isn't Cas's fault. He was just trying to help."

_And apparently it was help we didn't need because what I really wanted was to be fucked by my little brother._ The thought makes his bile rise again and he has to swallow against throwing up. The smirk on Sam's face means he clearly understood what Dean didn't say, though, and that pisses him off. "It's rude to read other people's thoughts, Sam."

Cas looks away from them both, the guiltiest-looking thing Dean's ever seen him do, and Dean rolls his eyes. He'd expected that shit from the angel. He'd figured that was part of the deal. Having his little brother know everything he's ever thought is just cheating.

"Not you, Cas," Sam says. "You're an angel, we expected that. He doesn't like that I've been reading him since I was a teenager."

"That's the demon blood," Cas says, his voice soft. "You'll have many gifts because of it."

"Gifts." Dean sneers. "Right, that's a gift."

"It was in this case," Cas says. "We wouldn't have broken the curse if Sam hadn't figured out your desire for your brother to –"

" _Cas,_ " Dean warns.

~~~

Ultimately, Dean goes on to tell Cas to go back in time to prevent Sam from getting cursed, and eventually Cas tells Dean he will do it, and he does go back in time, he just doesn't go back to the curse. His plan isn't about Sam, his plan is about preventing the mess in Heaven before it gets to the apocalypse - which will basically save Sam and Dean too.


	16. Recordings of various stages of development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Various plot recordings at various points in time. Feel free to stream at the links.

[11/15/2015](https://soleta.net/kisa/podfic/20151115.m4a) 38:27  
Trying to figure out Hell's plan in canon; trying to figure out what to do about Cas's vessel (this is a running problem that comes back a few times)

[2/4/2017](https://soleta.net/kisa/podfic/20170204.m4a) 27:54  
Dean POV outlining. Figuring out why Sammy got cursed - basically the reasoning behind the Prologue alternate POV. Also I think trying to figure out how Dean also gets cursed so the sex can happen, I think?

[9/16/2017](https://soleta.net/kisa/podfic/20170916.m4a) 45:36  
Interesting stuff about the Dean/OC of indeterminate gender. Cas in Heaven stuff. Balthazar figuring out what happened. Gabriel thoughts. Basically a lot of what I was planning to do with Cas. More vessel struggling.

And lol, there are several huge files I recorded on my computer that are lost somewhere. RIP voice files where I agonize over Cas's vessel. But I hope these three are interesting anyway.


	17. Part 3: Sam POV!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after Cas went back in time and stopped the apocalypse, somehow he, Sam, and Dean got together and then we moved on to Part 3: Sam POV. And of course it starts with sex. :)

Sam relaxes back into his seat, letting the air conditioning hit his face. It was crazy hot out there - why are graduations always in June, people having to sit around in the heat for hours for all that pomp and circumstance?

He loves the Impala, of course he does, but it's times like this that he's glad for his little [car]. Air conditioning, seats he can actually sit in comfortably, no coolant leaving a neon green trail behind him... [Car name] gets the job done just as well as Baby and is way more comfortable. Something like this, a five hour drive, Sam'd almost considered doing it in a day. He's driven further for less. He decided to stay a couple nights, though, take the time to see Molly and meet her parents, watch them glow with pride as she'd talked about defending her thesis over dinner.

Hunting provides a certain adrenaline rush to his life, but it's got nothing on being a teacher – not when your students call you up years after an intro class and tell you they're getting their PhDs and would you please come to the ceremony, it would mean so much, Dr. Winchester?

Sam smiles. Molly's the fourth student in ten years that's gone on to get a PhD in Classics; he wonders if he'll make it to double digits before he retires.

A thought comes into his mind like a rock skipping across the surface of a lake. Cas is pinging him. Cas has always been more creative and subtle with Sam's gift than Dean; and much less wary of it.

 _Here, Cas,_ Sam thinks. _About half an hour out. What's up?_

He can feel Cas's smile, warm, like the sun on his skin. _Good._

Sam suddenly has a second reality in his head. It’s like trying to watch two TVs at the same time; he can see the road and the bright plains all around him, but he can also see Dean sprawled on the bed, naked, with one knee hitched up, leaving nothing to the imagination.

 _"Dean,"_ Cas whispers, that silky voice Sam knows neither of them can say no to. _"What do you say we get you ready for Sam?"_

_"Mmmm,"_ Dean answers, and Sam’s breath hitches. It’s been years and Dean still can’t look Sam in the eye when they’re fucking, much less talk about it. It kills Sam a little, but he knows there’s no way to force Dean into accepting the situation on any terms but his own.

Sam feels as much as sees Cas’s hand run up Dean’s leg, over his ass, coming to rest in the middle of his back. It occurs to him that Cas is actually sending him an entire sensory experience and he has to concentrate to keep the road present enough that he doesn’t drive himself into the ditch.

 _"I think,"_ Cas says, _"that we should see how open we can get you for Sam."_

Sam’s palms tremble from the resounding rumble in Dean’s chest, like it’s his hand lying there, not Cas’s. _"Fuck, yes."_

He can feel Cas’s pleasure at Dean’s easy acceptance, and the next thing he knows, he can feel two fingers of his right hand pushing into Dean, their way eased by a ton of lube. Cas is still looking at the broad expanse of Dean’s back. Sam knows it’s Cas’s favorite part of Dean’s body, the same way he likes Sam’s thighs best. Sam smiles to himself and thinks _let me see what you’re doing, Cas._

Cas obliges him and looks down, twisting his fingers into Dean and getting more encouraging rumbling. He glances back up when Dean grabs one of the pillows and twists his arms around it. _"Faster, Cas, he’s almost home."_

Sam looks down at the speedometer and sees he’s going ninety-five. At this speed, he’ll be home in fifteen minutes, maybe less. He doesn’t slow down.

 _"You want to be ready so your brother can fuck you when he comes in the door?"_ Cas asks, sounding innocent. Sam holds his breath.

Dean whines, an incoherent sound in the back of his throat, and moans into the pillow. _"I didn’t hear you,"_ Cas says, stopping the movement of his hand. _"You want to be ready for your little brother to fuck you?"_

Cas remains still and Sam can feel Dean quivering around the tips of Cas’s fingers.

He lets the breath out he was holding. He knew Dean would never admit –

 _"Yes,"_ Dean says softly, half into the pillow. _"Fuck, yes._ Sam swallows hard. Before he can even really process what that means, Dean moans, _Sammy._ , and the road blurs because Sam's eyes are stinging.

He shakes his head, takes a couple of deep breaths. The last thing he wants is to die in a fiery car crash because he can’t keep it together at his brother’s unwitting confession.

He takes deep breaths, trying to get himself under control, wondering what it means that Dean can so easily admit these things to Cas. Sam sends his thanks in a wave of gratitude that defies words and then takes one last deep breath before focusing back in on what Cas is showing him.

Cas has four fingers in Dean now, and Sam’s turning off the highway, gauging whether he can risk speeding his way through town or if he should skirt the edge of it. He decides to go the long way round – same amount of time in the end, considering he’s going to go seventy-five on the country roads, but fewer chances of running people over on the way.

_"Think you can take my fist before he gets here, Dean?"_

Dean shivers, and Sam can see it travel the length of his back. He adjusts himself, thankful they don't have neighbors near enough to be able to see him when he gets out of the car with a raging boner.

 _"Hurry,"_ Dean says, _"he's really close."_

 _You have no idea,_ Sam thinks, as he turns into the drive. The video feed blinks out then, and Sam guns it up the winding drive and throws the car into park as he's already opening the car door and twisting himself out of it.

 _Gently,_ Cas sends him as he clomps up the steps of the porch two at a time. _He doesn't know._

That stops Sam in his tracks, enough to slow his momentum and allow him to catch a breath. Dean doesn't know that Sam is aware of how he feels. Now that he _is_ aware though, Sam has to find a way to get it out in the open once and for all. He can't go back to wishing Dean would look at him, maybe kiss him in passing the way Cas does, maybe start something when Cas isn't there to be a buffer. He can't waste any more time tiptoeing around a defense mechanism that Dean's clearly outgrown.

He's staring at the front door, trying to figure out what to do when Cas sends, _he knows you're here._

Looks like it'll be a Dean Winchester special. Play it by ear and hope your instincts are good enough to keep you from the crash and burn. He takes one last, deep breath, and pushes open the door.

"Dean?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light. "Cas?"

"In here," Cas calls, sounding like he's folding laundry. The fact that Cas is a sneaky bastard had been a nasty shock when Sam'd realized it for the first time.

Sam thinks he knows what he's going to see when he walks in, but having a vague idea is one thing and seeing Cas with his whole hand inside Dean is another thing entirely. As is Dean, up on his knees and spread wide, a sheen of sweat on his back that Sam hadn't noticed in Cas's vision.

Sam is speechless. This happens a lot with Cas and Dean so it isn't terribly unexpected, but it does have the strange result of every move he makes being a complete surprise unless he forecasts it first. Whether or not he does depends on how mean he wants to be.


	18. Deleted Scenes: Taking Crowley's contract to a lawyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the huge lull in pacing, I had Sam insist on taking Crowley's contract to a lawyer. This is two scenes around that.

"Azazel might have been the brains of the outfit, but a pissed-off Lilith isn't big on doing things with surgical precision. She'll take out swathes of humanity if she finds a way to get herself topside."

Sam nods tightly, and Scott grins like he's delighted. "You've really gone all out on this. Does your teacher give points for creativity? Because this is impressive."

Sam's annoyed. His story is sound – an assignment for law school, makes sense, but the lawyer is taking too long to get into the guts of the thing. "Thanks, but that's my buddy's project," Sam says. "I'm writing the rebuttal, and I need to make sure he doesn't pull one over on me."

When Scott finally opens the scroll and it rolls most of the way across the room, his eyes grow gratifyingly round. "Well, your buddy is thorough, I'll give him that."

"Yeah," Sam says darkly, "he's a sneaky asshole. I need to make sure I haven't missed anything. Particularly in the indemnification and breach of contract clauses."

"Okay," Scott says, "let's get to work."

~~~

He reads further down the scroll. "Two months to get started, are you kidding? You've already taken three just to redline my offer – which was extremely generous, I'll have you know."

Sam grumbles something unintelligible, but it does sound like grudging respect. He'd gone through that contract with a fine-toothed comb, and only come up with a few vague clauses that needed clarification. They'd taken the contract to four different lawyers and gotten the same reaction all around – it was a solid deal, less objectionable than most standard industry contracts. Dean still isn't sure how he feels about that.

"I need to set everything straight at school," Sam says, and Dean might have balked at that a few years ago, but he finds the happier Sam is, the more Dean wants him to stay that way. And whatever it is about where Sam is in his life right now – school, Chicago, being a homeowner – he's happy. Dean likes to think that he's some small part of it, but even if the only part he has is to be a witness to it, he doesn't care. 

He'd been worried that they were sitting ducks, staying so close to the bar where Sam died ( _where Sam **died**_ echoes in his brain painfully), but there haven't been any more attacks on Sam's life and that cranky angel hasn't been back, so he's hopeful that they dodged a bullet.

Crowley sighs loudly. "Fine. Have you given any thought about how you're going to kill all these heavy hitters?"

The look Sam gives Crowley is three quarters disbelief and one quarter pure contempt. "We're not telling _you_."

"You'd be an idiot not to," Crowley says. "I've watched you two chuckleheads hunt, and let me tell you, you lack a certain –"

"Panache?" Sam asks, and now Crowley scowls.

"Basic level of intelligence."

"What?" Dean says, but it's Sam's that's out of his chair and pressing Crowley against the wall with an arm across his throat. 

"Really, Moose, here in Starbucks?"

Dean gets up and pulls Sam back. Crowley's not wrong, they're getting stares. "C'mon, Sam, it doesn't hurt to use what he knows."


	19. Deleted Scenes: Christmas and fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently somewhere in there I was in need of some fluff, so after Dean said he was going to stay, I went FULL CHRISTMAS (including a DOG for Sam!!!) and then took it out because it was a lull in pacing, but it's still adorable.

As Christmas approaches, a marketing campaign like a tidal wave – overwhelming and impossible to get away from – Dean starts to get weird longings for holiday trappings. He and Sam and notoriously horrible gift givers, but it looks like he's going to be home not just for the holiday, but for the whole lead-up, and he wants to do it right.

Eventually he asks Shannon, some night when she decides he's more appetizing than the offers at the bar, and they're cooling down and waiting to see if either of them is up for a second round. "Do you do Christmas?" has asks, and when she tenses up, he follows up with "Because I need help shopping for my brother," because the last thing he wants is her thinking he's shopping for jewelry or something.

"Oh," she says, sinking back down into the bed, resting her head on his chest. "Well, what does he like?"

And that's the question. Dean doesn't really have any idea. "Books." 

"So get him a book," she says, like that's the end of it, and then she climbs off the bed to go to her toy drawer, and that really is the end of it.

~~~

The problem is, Sam's library is full of books for hunting, and while Dean appreciates the fact that Sam likes to be well-prepared, he doesn't want to give Sam a gift that's really more of a gift for himself. And while there are books scattered everywhere around the house, everything from Stephen King to Malcolm Gladwell, he doesn't really know what Sam reads for pleasure. A look at the novels stacked up haphazardly on the coffee table tells him _everything_.

So a book is out of the question, because it just isn't personal enough. It puts him back at square one, though, because he doesn't know what the hell to get Sam.

He stumbles on the answer a couple of mornings later, when Sam is coming back from a morning run as Dean's about to head out for breakfast at their local diner, and he stops to pet Mrs. Mukherjee's dogs. The dogs obviously know him, because they're all over him, jumping up despite Mrs. Mukherjee's frenzied attempts to get them to heel, and he is grinning like that is the best thing in the world, petting them both and eventually getting down to their level to talk stupid baby talk at them.

He can feel the disappointment set in, because he doesn't really know anything about dogs, but he does know that you have to spend time training a puppy, and he and Sam have almost totally opposite schedules now, which means he will be doing just as much of the training as Sam will. But watching Sam's genuine smile as he lets the dogs lick his face, Dean knows this is the only thing that will both surprise the hell out of Sam and be a gift good enough to make up for twenty-odd years of really shitty gifts. 

He resigns himself to researching them and saunters over to untangle Sam from Mrs. Mukherjee's dogs.

~~~

It's a tough call, deciding what kind of dog to get Sam. He knows he doesn't want a purebred – not for the cost, which he'd gladly pay (out of his tips, and definitely not on the credit card that he sees Sam balancing in a huge spreadsheet on his computer every month), but because mutts seem to have better temperaments. He's also pretty sure that Sam would prefer to get a dog from a shelter, so he starts making the rounds, seeing if there's a dog that catches his eye. There's nothing the first few trips, but he goes every day that he's not working, and the staff gets to know him and ask what he's looking for.

Sally at the PAWS adoption center takes him aside after his fourth visit and tells him that she has a friend whose border collie had puppies a few months ago, and they're down to the runt of the litter that nobody seems to want, and she's at the end of her rope because she doesn't want to bring the puppy to a shelter, but she can't take care of two dogs, either. 

Dean takes her number and drives all the way to the Wisconsin border to check out the pup, who of course takes one look at him and recognizes he's a sucker, because she gives Dean the best set of puppy eyes he's seen next to Sam, and he knows he's going to bring her home with him. It's still ten days before Christmas, so he makes a deal to pick her up on Christmas eve and pays Maria an extra two hundred dollars for puppy-sitting duties in the interim. She thanks him profusely – more than he really wants – but it's obvious she's strapped for cash and he's been there. He takes her hugs and the rapid-fire Spanish that he only gets about half of, and he goes to a pet store to buy all the supplies they're going to need and a bunch more they don't because he's never been able not to spoil the people he cares about.

~~~

Of all things, it's the tree that's weird. It's only four days until Christmas when Dean wraps up every single thing he bought at the gift store, and he realizes he has nowhere to put it all. He's seen enough Christmas movies to know you should have a tree in the house, but he hasn't really seen any Christmas trees for sale, which seems weird except that he stays within a fifteen-block radius of the house most of the time.

Eventually he brings it up to Sam, who stares at him with a strange blend of concern and fear. "Did you hit your head?" he asks. "We never celebrate Christmas."

"Not true," Dean says, because they almost always exchange gifts, though it's mostly whatever crap they can find on Christmas Eve at midnight. Dean gives up and takes another tack. "Well, I mean, we're in one place for a change, we've should do it up."

Sam looks at him like he's crazy, but Dean just keeps up with the innocent act, so eventually Sam rolls his eyes and says, "Fine. What did you have in mind?"

As it turns out, Sam has decorated before. It can't have been his apartment – Dean's made it to Sam within a day of Christmas every year, and he's never had a tree – but he knows exactly where to get a tree. They take the Impala; the new car Sam bought – some foreign eco-friendly thing – wouldn't be able to stay on the road in the slush that's out there right now. But there's a parking lot less than a mile away where there are trees in weird sleeve-like things leaning against a fence, and Sam even knows how to inspect the strange, mesh-wrapped packages to find a good tree. It's a good thing, too - Dean thought the lots would be pretty full with four whole days until Christmas, but apparently people buy their trees early around here, because there's slim pickings.

Then it's on to Target for ornaments and tinsel (he has to get tinsel because Sam groans when he sees it, and he's sure there's something going on there) and lights and a star for the top and a skirt for the bottom. They buy a torture device that Sam says is what they need to hold the tree upright. Dean hadn't really thought about it; he just figured maybe you propped the tree up against the wall in the corner or something. There's also stockings (whatever the hell _those_ are for) and outside lights (and Dean is not helping with _those_ ) and Dean insists on the giant blow-up polar bear for their front lawn.

Sam buys some hot chocolate and Baileys Irish Cream, which makes Dean roll his eyes, but they spend the rest of the daylight hours putting up the outside lights and blowing up the giant polar bear, and it's actually kind of nice to have something warm and sweet to drink. 

After that, it's putting the tree together, and it takes a while to get the tree into the stand, the skirt around it, and then the lights on – who knew that lights were such a pain in the ass? – but when they turn the lights out and flip the switch, Dean's heart gives a lurch. It's not that it's beautiful or something – it's just the same tacky Christmas tree he sees everywhere – but it's _theirs_. He and Sam are decorating for a holiday that's four days from now, and this is going to be in their home for a full week. What the hell is his life now?

Before he can get too sappy, though, he runs out to the car and brings out all the gifts he wrapped at the bar, piling them under the tree. Sam shakes his head and laughs. "What has gotten into you?"

Dean shrugs. They don't talk about the sappy stuff; he doesn't really like saying it out loud, but he's home, they're both safe, they have enough time and space to really do up a holiday right. That never happens.

Sam's face softens, and he says, "Me too, Dean," and claps a hand on Dean's shoulder while they stare at the tree, mugs of sickly-sweet holiday drinks in hand.

~~~

Shannon has family out of state, it turns out, so she shuts down for two days over Christmas Eve and Christmas. Dean would question that – having been on the road most Christmases, the bars and restaurants that stay open on the holidays are some of the ones that receive his most stalwart support – but he's too thrilled to have the room to do what he needs to do for Sam's Christmas surprise to complain.

Sam's not a late sleeper by nature, and Dean's not an early riser, so he's basically got to hope that Sam's got something to do on Christmas Eve so he can sneak out to get the puppy and stow it in his room. He has no idea how the puppy's going to do overnight in his room, but he can't worry about it now.

Turns out Sam has Christmas Eve plans. It's not like Dean had some kind of claim on every second of the holiday – they hadn't even discussed their holiday schedules, which is why it was so weird in early December when he'd started to see Sam around the house nearly all the time when he was home. He'd forgotten about winter break. 

But Sam's meeting up with some students – locals, or kids who are stuck for the holidays maybe, and they're doing some kind of gift exchange. He's got a book wrapped up in nice paper, and he's dressed in what Dean privately thinks of as his old professor clothes. He has a thing for cardigans. It's revolting, and yet, it's also kind of cute. 

"A book? Could you be more cliché?"

Sam grins at him. "Some people like books, Dean. And this is a book club, so… yeah. A book."

Sam's in a book club? Ugh, he is _such_ a nerd. It hurts Dean, deep in his soul. This cannot be the little brother he raised. "On Christmas Eve? Really?"

Sam grins again, but this time it's soft, and a little melancholy. "It's a group of grad students, Dean, and most of us are either local or estranged from family. We do it for a lot of holidays." He looks at Dean, suddenly cheeky, and says, "You could join us. A couple of people have brought friends before."

Dean rolls his eyes. "And have your nerdiness rub off all over me? I'd never get laid again."

Sam's laugh is deep and sincere. "I hardly think that'll be a problem. We're meeting at that coffee shop on 57th if you change your mind," he says, snagging his keys out of the bowl next to the door. "I'll be back late-ish, probably. Eleven or so."

"Say hi to all the spinsters, Agnes," Dean says, and Sam's laugh as he leaves makes Dean smile.

~~~

Picking the puppy up and getting her stowed in his room is a breeze; the only issue is that he's done by eight o'clock and it's now Christmas Eve and he's home alone. He's spent most of his Christmas Eves getting blitzed at whatever bar was open, and the following Christmases sleeping it off and then wandering out to find whatever restaurant might be open for dinner. There's always one.

Now he's sitting here, waiting for Sam to come home – and what? It's not like he knows what you do on Christmas Eve. He figures he shouldn't leave the puppy alone in his room, so he goes up and turns the TV on, thinking maybe the issue is that he hasn't watched enough Christmas movies to know what you're supposed to do for the holiday.

Of course everything on the six hundred channels they have is Christmas-related, and he ends up watching baking competition shows because it turns out he hates holiday movies. The first one he'd watched had the mom die at the end of it, and he was devastated. It was going along great, funny, mostly and then heart-breaking at other points, and then, the ending. What the hell. How is that a holiday movie? 

So, baking it is. The puppy is full of energy, so he throws a pair of socks around for her to run after (which she does dutifully) and bring back to him (which she does not). It takes forever to tire her out, and by the time he finally does, Dean's ready to drop off, too. 

She climbs in with him and sets her head on his lap, and he is an idiot for getting this as a present for Sam, because he knows going to love her just as much as Sam does.

~~~

At some point ridiculously early in the morning, the puppy wakes him up with her wet nose. He starts flailing because it's never a good thing to be waking up to slime, but she licks his face and he remembers himself before he sends her flying across the room.

The pup bounces off of him and runs to stand over by the door. It takes Dean a minute in his half-asleep state to realize that she must need to go outside. He hadn't really thought of that; her leash is wrapped up under the tree somewhere.

"Uh," he says, trying to figure out what to use as a makeshift leash. He uses the first thing he thinks of; Shannon's silk scarves. She's left a few with him to use when she comes over; they're tucked in with the toys he's bought for them, second drawer, behind the boxers and socks.

He has to tie two of them together to get something long enough, and the puppy is nearly bouncing off the walls, but he picks her up and gets her down the stairs without hitting the creaky step, and just hopes that it's too early or cold for Sam to be out on one of his runs. He walks her around the block, twice. She stops the first time to pee on nearly everything, and to take a shit on the lawn of the decrepit house next door, which he doesn't stress about too much, because it's early and there's no one to see him, but it makes him wonder if he's supposed to pick up her poop or something – isn't that something you're supposed to do in cities? He's going to have to ask Sam.

The second round is so she can get out some of her energy, and he even runs with her a little bit, until he gets out of breath. He'll be damned if he starts running regularly because of a dog, though. Sam's just going to have to take her with him in the mornings, and that's the end of it.

She's less hyper by the time he gets in, but she looks thirsty, and he has no idea if there's still water in the bowl he set out for her upstairs – or food, for that matter, he didn't bother to take a look before he left the room.

He decides that enough's enough, and when he looks at the clock on the microwave and it says 5:19am, he knows it's the perfect time to wake Sam up to open some presents. He fills a bowl with water and sets it out for the pup to drink, shutting the door to keep her in the kitchen. There's not too much she can get into there, so hopefully she'll be okay for a few minutes.

He creeps back upstairs, slowly opens Sam's door, and takes just a moment to appreciate Sam sleeping peacefully on his huge bed. There's been a lot of crap in their lives, but they made it through. 

He takes a running leap and jumps on the bed, jouncing Sam awake. "It's presents time! Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Sam groans, but when he opens his eyes, he's wide awake and smiling. "What time is it?"

"5:30. Let's go, there's presents."

Sam grins at him, the wide, goofy smile that Dean hasn't seen since Sam was a teenager. It's probably the best gift he'll get all day.

"And candy," Sam says, throwing back the covers and rushing for the door. 

Wait, candy? Dean can't ask though, because Sam's racing downstairs and Dean's never lost a race in his life, so he shoves off to follow Sam, jostling on the stairs, elbowing him in the ribs hard enough that he leans over to catch his breath.

"Ha!" Dean says, when he makes it to the living room first, and then realizes he doesn't know what to do now that he's gotten here. 

Sam ambles down the rest of the stairs, shaking his head, and goes over to where they'd hammered a couple of nails in the wall and hung the stockings. How had he not noticed they were stuffed full? Sam hands him one and sits down with his own, picking things out of it one by one. 

Dean's never been one to wait, though, and he dumps the entire contents onto the coffee table to examine in detail. Unfortunately, it seems like there was a whole bag of M&Ms in there, loose, so they skitter all over the floor. 

Dean doesn't care, though, because holy crap, it's the motherlode of candy. There's every kind of cheap chocolate Santa, snowman, and reindeer that's ever been made, as well as Christmas versions of all his favorites, Reeses cups and Hersheys kisses and Dean is in heaven. He had no idea Christmas was another version of Easter.

There are a couple of cool little toys, too, a miniature slinky and Silly Putty and Shrinky Dinks, all stupid kid stuff he and Sam used to do on those long nights after school when Dad was on a hunt. Sam brings in the paper and Dean immediately grabs it to use the Silly Putty on.

"Where the hell did you find all this crap?" he asks, because he had no idea that they even still _made_ Shrinky Dinks, and the fact that Sam found this stuff for him makes him stupidly happy.

"It all comes out around Christmas," Sam says, shrugging, but smiling with dimples, too. "They market it as stocking stuffers, even."

Stocking stuffers. He's almost twenty-eight years old and he's never had any idea what to do with a Christmas stocking, much less had one of his own. Of course Sam knows that shit, he's always known those little details of normal life, Christmas stockings and closets for hanging clothes and credit histories. It makes Dean wonder if he could live this life permanently. He doesn't think it for long, though, because he's pretty sure he'll break out in hives if he does.

"Well, let's break out the presents," Dean says, going over to the tree. He knows almost all of them are from him – as a matter of fact, all but _one_. He can see the silver paper Sammy used on a middling-sized box off to the side. One? Seriously?

"Well, guess I know what I'm opening," Dean says, going for the box. 

Sam raises his eyebrows. "And me?"

"Everything else is for you, dumbass," he says, even though he can't understand how that is even a question. Who else would have gifts under their tree?

Dean doesn't wait for Sam to pick one to open, he rips into the wrapping paper on his box. One long strip reveals a bunch of blue, but it takes a few seconds for Dean to get the rest of the wrapping off to realize it's a laptop. Dean stares down at it. "Really?" he asks, because holy shit, he never even thought of something stupidly expensive like that.

Sam shrugs. "Really. It's useful for hunting, if you want to keep doing that. And if you get bored, type 'porn' into a search engine sometime."

Sam occasionally teases Dean about his love of porn, but more often than not, it's a gentle eyeroll accompanied by an "I can't believe we're related" smile. Dean knows Sam watches porn, too – he's caught Sam at it more than a few times – but he's never really appreciated it the way Dean does. It's art, pure and simple, and he is so ready to dive into the world of internet porn.

"Thanks, Sammy."

"Speaking of porn," Sam says, holding up the black leather leash that's one of fifteen or so gifts that accompany the puppy, "are you trying to tell me something?"

Dean sets down the laptop on the couch and circles around it. "Close your eyes," he says. "No peeking."

"Dean," Sam says, annoyance and exasperation in his voice. Still, he closes his eyes, and Dean tiptoes over to the kitchen and opens the door silently. The puppy is nowhere in sight. "Shit!" he says, looking around frantically, kicking himself when Sam comes running up behind him.

"What is it?" he says, looking around. "What's wrong?"

 _Damn it._ It's been like, half an hour, where the hell could the damn thing have gotten to? He tries whistling. He seems to remember that some dogs come when you whistle. "Here, girl," he says, and that's when he sees it – the cupboard door standing open, and he slides over to it, pulling out the pots and pans stored in there before he gets to the puppy, curled up in the back, looking up at him sleepily. 

He scoops her up, scolding gently. "You scared the crap out of me, playing hide and seek like that."

When he turns around to finally hand off the pup to Sam, his brother's eyes are somehow both wide with shock and soft with love at first sight. He knew Sam was going to love her. He's glad to know he got that right.

"Merry Christmas, Sam," Dean says, settling the puppy into the cup of Sam's hands. 

"Merry Christmas, Dean," Sam answers, bringing the pup up to his face to rub noses.

~~~

Possibly because Ada is sitting on his bed, staring at him. Even if he shuts his door, which is a little disturbing, that the dog has figured out how to use doorknobs. He knew he'd picked a smart breed, but he thinks Sam is actually teaching her things, which disturbs Dean, too. Then he takes the dog out for her walk. Which isn't really a walk, because she just will not stop moving. It started as a walk – Dean wasn't going to run unless something was chasing him, that was the deal, and he's gotten enough exercise in his life running toward danger, anyway. But Ada is not a sit-on-your-ass kind of dog, and she's not really a leisurely-paced-walk dog, either. So he'd picked up the pace, giving her a nice brisk mile or two walk. Even that wasn't enough though – she'd want to go out again later, if he didn't wear her out enough, so he'd started jogging along, trying to pick up the pace, going a little further. And now he runs, three or four miles every evening before he gets ready for work, and he's become one of those assholes that runs with his dog.

Sam was one of those assholes almost immediately – he'd taken Ada out for a run Christmas afternoon, for crying out loud, and he continues to get up at the crack of dawn and take Ada for a run, every morning. If it's a late night, Dean meets them on his way in.

Sam just laughs at him, smiling his happy smile, the one with the dimples, the one he wears a lot of the time now. There's a part of Dean that thinks maybe he can live this life forever, as long as Sam keeps wearing that smile.

~~~


End file.
